


I'm on fire (like a thousand suns)

by annabeth_writes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Mild Language, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-09-01 15:17:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16767706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_writes/pseuds/annabeth_writes
Summary: Sansa is slowing wilting beneath the dark shadow that the Lannisters cast over her day in and out. As Joffrey's wedding draws nearer and more guests arrive each day, her plight doesn't go unnoticed. The last person in the world that she expects to sympathize with her suffering approaches her and unexpected events begin to unfold when he challenges her to an ongoing game of truth. Trapped in a court full of lies and betrayal, Sansa finds herself tempted by the freedom that the Red Viper of Dorne offers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I published this fic a long time ago but never finished it. After rediscovering it in my writing folder, I decided to publish it again and finish it out. There will be some changes to the story because I'll polish it up as I go. I hope that everyone likes it!
> 
> Sansa is aged up just a bit, mostly because of personal preferences. I generally age her up in most of my fics. She's about sixteen, approaching seventeen, at the start of the fic.
> 
> Fic Title: Hunger - Ross Copperman

Sansa felt the stare before she even looked around. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and not just from the light breeze that flowed from the bay. In that moment, she wished that she hadn’t refused Shae’s offer to accompany her to the gardens. She tried to tell herself that she was being foolish. Stares were not uncommon, especially directed towards her. They were often accompanied by titters and whispers but only silence greeted her aside from the muffled conversations happened deeper within the gardens. Finally turning her head, Sansa’s eyes widened slightly and felt her mouth go dry as she met the gaze of the man who stared.

There was no ill intent in his face as he leaned against a tree no more than ten paces away from her. The rusty orange tunic complimented his skin quite well and his glittering black eyes looked more curious than mocking. But she knew better than to judge by a man’s appearance, especially a handsome man. So Sansa twisted her hands into her gown as her heart beat a rapid pace in her chest, waiting for the Red Viper of Dorne to strike. Unable to forget her courtesies, she began to rise from the stone bench where she sat only to still at the shake of his head.

“No need to rise for me,” he said in an accent she hadn’t yet heard during her time in King’s Landing.

Sansa felt torn between submitting to his words or following through with her instinct. She’d quickly learned that things went better for her if she used her courtesies as a shield. This was a man that she did not know and had no reason to trust. But on the other hand, she did not wish to anger him by ignoring his request. So she remained sitting, her hands folded tightly in her lap as she watched him with a wary gaze without yet speaking, waiting instead for some sort of jest to be made or perhaps an allusion to her fallen family of which she was the last living member. Instead, Oberyn Martell stared into her eyes as if they would give him the answer to some unspoken question.

“Might I assist you in some way, my lord?” Sansa finally asked, unable to keep the slight tremble of fear from her own words.

In response, he simply asked, “Do you like games, Lady Stark?”

Of course, he knew who she was. There wasn’t a single person in the Red Keep who didn’t, even those who were newly arrived in time for the king’s wedding. What took Sansa by surprise was how he addressed her. It was the correct way. Sansa’s mother was gone and if by some slim chance, Arya was alive, she was still younger than Sansa. There was no one else to take up the mantle of Lady Stark. Though she would likely never see Winterfell again, the title was hers. Remembering that he asked her a question, Sansa sorted through her mind for the proper answer.

“I suppose it depends on the game,” she said carefully.

Sansa expected the mocking at this point. She wished that she still believed that the gods would listen to her if only so that she could pray for him to leave her be.

“What sort of games are you accustomed to?” he asked, that same curious look on his face as he tilted his head to the side.

Sansa balked at that, unable to conjure a single one to her mind. In Winterfell, the games she played with her siblings often involved stories and playacting. Now that all seemed so far away and childish at best. She had been nothing but a stupid little child. Now she was a stupid young woman with a dead family and no one to call friend beside her handmaiden.

“I do not take part in many games, my lord,” she said quietly.

“No I suppose you don’t,” Oberyn said, sounding less than surprised by her words. “Might I suggest one?”

Sansa could not help but wonder if Prince Oberyn’s sort of games were as deviant as his reputation. If he intended to taunt her with the suggestion of a lewd game meant to take advantage of her innocence and naivety, he would certainly not be the first. Sansa feared the answer to her next question but she felt the need to ask it nonetheless.

“What sort of game?”

“One in which we both speak naught but the truth.”

Sansa frowned only slightly, wondering what he wanted from her. Everyone wanted something. Oberyn Martell could not be any different.

“That seems less like a game and more like an agreement,” Sansa said, the words slipping from her mouth quickly. “My lord.”

The corner of his mouth ticked upwards ever so slightly just before he pushed himself off of the tree.

“Then an agreement we shall make if you are open to it.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why but Sansa knew better than to question anyone, much less this man. This man who put half the castle, including the Lannisters, ill at ease from the moment of his arrival. Only the Tyrells seemed unconcerned by his presence, and that of his paramour Ellaria Sand. Apparently, when the invitation to the wedding was extended to the ruling family of Dorne, no one expected a single Martell to accept, much less Oberyn himself.

As his eyes slipping past her and to the sea beyond, likely giving her the chance to think it over without him watching, Sansa took a deep breath. Released from his dark gaze, she let her eyes flit over him to take in the sheathed dagger at his belt and the casual confidence that he exuded. He was a dangerous man. She had no way of knowing what may happen if she refused this agreement of his. If he took it as an insult, it may bring the ire of not only Joffrey but his grandfather down on her as well. But if she agreed, there was no telling what truth he would expect from her.

The only comfort that she found in the situation was that he offered her the truth as well. But Sansa was not like everyone else at the court. It was not always easy for her to tell when someone was lying. He could have been counting on her gullibility to trick her into revealing dangerous truths. As his eyes flitted back to her, Sansa had no idea what to say. He was awaiting her answer and all she wanted to do was flee. Opening her mouth, she did not know what words would form on her lips until they did so.

“I agree.”

His answering smile was a little wider than the first.

“I am Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Prince of Dorne,” he said, lowering himself into a bow.

Sansa did not know whether to rise now, choosing to remain seated as he straightened up.

“You already knew that,” Oberyn said.

She nodded once, knowing better than to lie now that she agreed. While she may not be able to sense deceit, Sansa had the feeling that he could.

“Another truth then,” he said with consideration. “I crave a meal with Dornish peppers rather than the bland spices that the royal family seems to favor.”

Still unable to figure out exactly what he wanted from her, Sansa stared at him as she sank her teeth into her lower lip, entirely unsure of what to say. When he gave her an expectant look, she released her lip and thought about it for only a moment.

“I like lemon cakes,” Sansa said hesitantly.

It felt wrong, giving such a personal preference away. She hadn’t tasted a single lemon cake in well over a year. It was hard not to suspect that Joffrey or Cersei had something to do with it. Yet Oberyn did not taunt her or even say a word. With a look of satisfaction, he lowered his head to her before turning away in a whirl of his long tunic. Sansa watched him disappear into the gardens, feeling even more confused than she had at the beginning of the conversation. It was hard to answer the question of what kind of trick this must be, but she was certain that it had to be a trick nonetheless. Nothing ever happened by accident in a place like this. Everything and everyone had a purpose. A scheme. Oberyn Martell could not be any different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and commented so far! I’m so glad that some of you remember and are happy to see this fic back up and running. I hope that you will like what I have in store since there will be some changes to the storyline that I had before.

Sansa did not know what to think of the invitation. Margaery Tyrell seemed kind enough from a distance and everyone knew of her generosity towards the smallfolk. It was one thing to observe her from afar and quite another to meet her and the number of ladies that accompanied her from Highgarden. Next to their light, lovely gowns, Sansa felt heavy and drab in her own ill-fitting wool dress. Yet she entered the garden with her head held as high as she could manage, keenly aware of the Lannister guards that watched her from their posts. Hiding her trembling hands in the folds of her dress, Sansa followed the sound of laughter and music to a covered terrace overlooking the bay.

A table in the center nearly overflowed with food and wine. Yet that is not what stole Sansa’s attention. She did not even notice the future queen or any of her numerous companions. Instead, her eyes fell on the very man that she’d been trying to avoid almost as much as Joffrey over the past several days. Oberyn Martell sat with the Queen of Thorns herself, his bright yellow surcoat standing out amidst the blues and greens of the Tyrell host. Sansa drew up short, her breath catching in her throat as she recalled the foolish agreement that she made with him.

The truth could be so dangerous in King’s Landing. She’d been burned before by people who took advantage of her truths. Sansa should have never agreed to give it away so freely. Especially to a man as dangerous as Oberyn Martell. Yet she felt that any lie she told him would be sensed immediately. So avoiding his presence was the only thing that she could do to keep herself safe. However, there was no evading him now. His dark gaze settled on her as he murmured something to Olenna Tyrell before unfurling from his chair with all the grace of a predator who caught a scent.

Sansa never felt more like prey before, even with all of Joffrey’s threats. Her heart thundered in her chest as he approached, his gait slow and languid. He was the first to notice her on the edge of the revelry. Her courtesies slipped into place like armor and Sansa found herself lowering into the curtsy that he’d refused to allow the last time they crossed paths, her head lowering to watch as his brown leather boots entered her sight. Straightening up steadily, Sansa subtly took in a deep breath before lifting her eyes to meet his. He held a cup in one hand and his eyes were sharp and observant, much like before.

“How fortuitous,” Oberyn said, swirling his wine without spilling a drop. “That I would stumble upon a wolf in a garden of roses. Are you well, Lady Stark?”

“I am, my prince,” Sansa said quietly, feeling off-kilter beneath his gaze. “And you?”

He did not answer at first, taking a long drink before glancing around.

“This city is a cesspool,” Oberyn said, taking her aback with his blunt honesty. “So many poets and minstrels claim that it is a treasure but I have traveled to a multitude of cities and I find this one lacking in almost everything.”

Sansa stared at him, grappling with the thoughts that sprung forth in the wake of his words. Before she knew it, a question sprung to her lips.

“Which do you favor the most?” she asked, her heart stuttering in her chest when his attention returned to her. “Of the cities that you have visited?”

His eyes glimmered with satisfaction, as if it was exactly what he wanted her to say.

“Is that the truth you ask for today?” Oberyn asked, his voice ringing with amusement.

Sansa’s eyes grew round as she searched her mind for the proper response. If she told him yes, he would expect a truth from her in return. If she told him no, she may never hear of the city that stood out the most in his mind. There was a small chance that she would ever leave King’s Landing and very few people that she spoke to so frankly. If she did not ask this man, who would tell her about the world outside of the capital? Outside of Westeros itself? So she nodded once, rubbing her thumb over her knuckles anxiously.

“Sunspear,” he said without hesitation.

She was surprised to hear it. Of all the cities he was rumored to have visited, he favored the seat of his family above them all. A small tendril of warmth wrapped around her heart, making her feel the briefest connection with him.

“It is not as grand as some places but it is my home,” Oberyn told her.

Sansa’s heart ached at the familiarity of his words. She wondered if her longing showed on her face because she saw the briefest softness in his eyes before it was gone again.

“I believe that it is your turn, Lady Stark.”

She fought the urge to bite at her lower lip, her eyes darting away from him before returning just as quickly. One truth remained at the forefront of her mind and did not allow any other to be spoken. These words were dangerous. More dangerous than anything she’d said since she ran to Cersei and told her of her father’s plans. Yet she found herself lowering her voice and speaking them softly, hoping that no one else would hear.

“I miss Winterfell.”

Sansa stared directly into his eyes as she spoke them. Instead of twisted mockery or laughter, she saw only understanding in his gaze. With a nod, Oberyn held her gaze for just a moment longer before lowering himself into a bow. Just before he stepped around her, he glanced at the cup in his hand.

“Dornish red,” he said with the slightest of smiles. “Strong but rich. I think you will find that it can provide a soothing distraction from one's ill thoughts.”

With that, he left her standing amidst the Tyrells with flushed cheeks and even more confusion clouding her mind. What did he want from her? And why did Sansa feel less anxious after speaking to him? Her thoughts were torn from Prince Oberyn when Lady Margaery caught sight of her and crossed over with a gentle smile, greeting Sansa as if they were old friends.

“I’m thrilled that you chose to join us,” she said happily, linking their arms once she pressed a kiss to Sanaa’s cheek. “I desire your friendship above all else.”

Sansa may not have been wise to the entirety of the Tyrell family’s plans but she saw enough ambition glinting in each set of brown eyes when Joffrey agreed to marry Margaery to be wary of each of them. She wasn’t fool enough to believe that her friendship meant anything to them, unless they could manage to wrangle her away from Cersei’s tight grip and plant her in Highgarden long enough to earn her claim through a few rosy babes with Stark blood in their veins. Even if they did not seek to conquer the North through a marriage, she did not trust her words with a single one of them. Not when Margaery has the ear of the king more than anyone these days. But then... what if he turned his cruelty on the rose of Highgarden? Should Sansa not warn her?

“I’m honored,” Sansa said congenially, bowing her head slightly. “You’re so very kind, my lady.”

“Margaery, I insist. If we are to be friends, I refuse to stand on ceremony.”

Sansa nodded her head, hating the way every eye seemed to follow them as Margaery led her to a seat right beside her own. She used to flourish under the attention of the court, happily dining and dancing whenever she was allowed to do so. Then her father’s head was struck from her shoulder and her golden prince turned into the wicked monster in her story and now she much preferred to go unnoticed.

“Hippocras?” Margaery said, oblivious to Sansa’s discomfort. “We favor it in Highgarden. Have you ever had it before?”

A servant in Tyrell livery approached with a jug held in both hands. Sansa could smell the sweet scent of the drink and knew it likely tasted rather fine. Yet she found herself hesitating, her hand reaching out to touch her cup.

“Do you have Dornish wine?”

The words slipped from her lips before she could call them back. Margaery’s eyes tightened ever-so-slightly at the corners and Sansa knew that something in her words displeased her. Yet the other woman nodded, a smile pulling at her lips as she waved another servant forward. Sansa watched as he poured the deep red wine into her cup, thanking him quietly.

“Are you well acquainted with Prince Oberyn?” Margaery asked, keeping her voice light as she waved at the table, inviting Sansa to help herself to any of the fruits, cheeses, or breads she wanted.

Shaking her head, Sansa plucked a bundle of green grapes from a platter and set them on her plate.

“Our paths have crossed by coincidence a few times.”

Sansa nearly cringed at Margaery’s light laugh, wondering if it was meant to mock her.

“I don’t believe that anything is a coincidence when it comes to that man,” the other woman said.

“Then you are wiser than most,” a new voice joined them.

Sansa tilted her head around Margaery, knowing who she would see before she even laid eyes upon them. It was easy to see that Olenna Redwyne was once a beautiful woman, much like her granddaughter. Her wizened face held sharp eyes and purses lips as she looked at Sansa as if she was a mere puzzle to be solved.

“My grandmother, Lady Olenna,” Margaery said with a secretive smile on her face.

“Oh she knows who I am,” Lady Olenna said, waving a dismissive hand towards Margaery.

Sansa wrapped her fingers around the cup of wine, daring to look away from the so called Queen of Thorns as she gathered her wits with a deep sip of the sour Dornish creation. Her throat clenched and her stomach twisted, rebelling at the heaviness of the drink. Inhaling deeply, Sansa refused to allow herself to choke, swallowing every drop.

“You were once betrothed to this boy king, yes?”

Sansa turned a wide-eyed gaze on Lady Olenna as Margaery tried to intervene, her hushed words falling on deaf ears.

“M-my lady?”

“You heard me well enough,” Olenna said, ignoring Sansa’s stammering. “You can tell us of his nature. His true nature. We hear many rumors, you see, both good and bad. We desire the truth above all, from someone close to the source.”

Sansa’s hand gripped the cup so tightly she feared it may shatter in her palm. She took another steadying drink, needing it more than she liked, before setting it down with a shaking hand. Inhaling slowly, she let her eyes dart this way and that, taking in every face around them before turning towards Olenna, forcing a smile upon her face.

“Joffrey is my beloved king,” she said, the words tasting bitter upon her tongue. “My traitor’s blood sadly prevented our union but I love him still and I am grateful that he’s found a proper bride in Lady Margaery.”

Olenna’s eyes narrowed and Margaery looked at her with sympathy written across her face. Neither of them believed a word that she said. Before the old woman could open her mouth again, her granddaughter held her hand gently to stop her.

“Look at her, grandmother,” Margaery said quietly, her own eyes moving to the Lannister guards that watched from their posts. “She’s terrified.”

Olenna shifted, turning to look at a jester who stood nearby.

“Sing.” she commanded.

The fool opened his mouth and began a song, drowning out all conversation as the two Tyrell ladies turned to face Sansa once again.

“Tell us,” Olenna commanded.

Margaery gave her a comforting smile, nodding her head. Sansa’s eyes darted between them, her heart’s pace rising in her chest with every moment that passed. Opening her mouth, she prayed that this would not mean her death as the truth poured forth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who is reading or commenting or leaving kudos. I appreciate all of you so much.

Sansa endured several fear-filled days following the Tyrell gathering. She nearly brought herself to beg Margaery not to end the engagement after admitting to just a sliver of Joffrey’s cruelty, knowing she’d be blamed if he lost his queen before they even wed. Yet there seemed to be no need for her pleas. Sansa didn’t fail to notice how utterly unsurprised Margaery and her grandmother were by her admitted truths. It was as if they heard rumors of what took place in the Red Keep and needed only witness Sansa’s fear to believe it.

Yet they did nothing. With no sign of the Tyrells leaving King’s Landing or falling into disgrace for breaking a betrothal, Sansa let herself enter the Great Hall without cowering in fear, hoping she would go unnoticed as the court gathered to hear the petitions laid before their king. She stood apart from the other lords and ladies, as always, content to be alone as nobles and smallfolk alike brought petitions before the king and his council. 

When she felt the prickling discomfort of unwelcome eyes upon her, Sansa turned her gaze from Margaery and her kin, expecting to see either Joffrey or Cersei glowering her way. Instead, she met Lord Baelish’s eyes and immediately wished that she hadn’t looked at all. Everyone wanted something. Sansa had learned that lesson well. She just couldn’t quite figure out what he wanted. It was only when she felt a presence at her side that she managed to look away from his laughing eyes.

“Lady Stark.”

His words were quiet, barely audible over the two farmers that were quarreling over land. Yet she knew who it was as soon as she heard his accented voice.

“Prince Oberyn,” Sansa greeted, clasping her hands in front of her as she cast a brief glance his way.

His eyes were fixed on the Iron Throne as he leaned forward, casually bracing his elbows on the low stone wall that separated the narrow gallery where they stood from the rest of the hall.

“You do not seem entertained by the petitioners,” Oberyn said without looking her way.

Sansa turned her attention back to Joffrey where he was picked lazily at one of the melted swords on the throne, his eyes nearly glazed over with disinterest.

“The king will not grant the land to either man,” she said quietly enough that only he could hear. “He will claim it for the crown and punish both farmers for wasting his time with a petty feud. They will be lucky to leave the capital with their heads still attached to their neck.”

Oberyn’s head turned towards her but she did not meet his gaze, pretending to give her attention to the argument.

“What would you do?” he asked.

Sansa balked at this question, wondering why would he ask her. Her opinion did not matter to anyone. But he persisted in looking at her, waiting for an answer. Sansa thought quickly about what her father would have done. Honor demanded that justice be served. The right way. Not the cruel way.

“They both have a legitimate claim to the land,” Sansa said, her eyes moving between the two farmers. “I would divide it between them equally unless one man wants to sell his share to the other.”

“An honorable solution,” Oberyn said, returning his eyes to the men just as Joffrey cut the squabbling off with a heavy sigh. “How unfortunate that you do not sit in judgment.”

Sansa pressed her lips together in a tight line as Joffrey ordered the guards to seize the farmers and throw them in the black cells for a fortnight. She could feel a chill run down her spine as she remembered a very different order given by the same king as he stood on the steps of Baelor’s sept.

“You are troubled by their fate,” the prince said, noting her suddenly pale complexion.

She shook her head, gripping her hands together so tightly that her knuckles whitened.

“I hate this room,” Sansa hissed out from between her teeth.

She could sense his surprise at the freely given truth. It wasn’t all that hard for her to admit. Oberyn Martell was a bold man. He brought out a certain daring side of her that Sansa did not know existed. It was more like Arya to strike up a strange, tenuous companionship with the Red Viper of Dorne. It was far safer for Sansa to pursue a friendship with Margaery or her cousins. Not this man. Yet words seemed to fall from her lips like rain from a cloud when he was around.

“I knelt before the king once and begged for his mercy,” Sansa said, nodding at one of the farmers where he’d fallen to the floor to plead with Joffrey. “Not for me but for my father.”

“The king refused.”

She shook her head, turning away from the throne as the crowd began to disperse once the farmers were dragged away. Lifting her eyes to meet his, Sansa loosened her grip and let her hands fall to her sides.

“He agreed to show mercy,” Sansa said, her stomach twisting violently at the memory of his false reassurances. “A sennight passed before he took me to the battlements and forced me to look at my father’s head.”

She moved to step around him, feeling the need to flee the hall before anyone heard her hushed admission. But he moved far quicker than her and snagged part of her loose sleeve in his hand, keeping her in place for just a moment.

“Your father was an honorable man,” Oberyn said in a low voice.

Sansa’s heart stuttered at his truth and her often used response leapt to the tip of her tongue.  _ My father was a traitor. My mother was a traitor. My brother was a traitor. I have traitor’s blood. The king has shown me great mercy. _ She managed to swallow the bitter-tasting words, gently tugging her sleeve free from the prince’s grasp.

“Are you?” Sansa asked in a whisper, briefly looking into his eyes.

Before he could answer, she slipped past him and made her way to a nearby door, needing to escape the throne room more than anything. Before Sansa could reach it, someone fell into step with her. She could tell without looking that it wasn’t Prince Oberyn. Their gait, even from the corner of her eye, looked much different.

“The Red Viper of Dorne,” Lord Baelish said, looking over at Sansa as they walked. “A dangerous man to speak with so openly.”

Sansa slowed to a stop, looking over at the man they called Littlefinger.

“He tells the truth,” she said.

Lord Baelish looked at her with pity, as if he couldn’t believe her supposed naivety.

“Haven’t I warned you before, Lady Sansa?” he asked, tilting his head to the side slightly. “Everyone in this city is a liar. Everyone.”

Sansa nearly shuddered at the sound of her name in his quiet voice. She much preferred Oberyn’s leisurely yet respectful, Lady Stark. She did not reply to him, lowering her head and dipping into a small curtsy before taking her leave of the Great Hall. Allowing herself a deep breath, she crossed the yard towards the serpentine steps, Sansa sincerely hoped that her words did not circle back around to cause even more trouble. She only just evaded Joffrey’s grasp when he broke their betrothal. The last thing that Sansa wanted was to be noticed once more. She could only pray that Oberyn Martell was not a Lannister spy waiting for her to speak ill of the king so that they would finally have a reason to kill her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

When the cold and indifferent Meryn Trant came to her door a day later, Sansa feared the worst. She could still feel the bite of his sword against the soft skin of her back as Joffrey commanded him to punish her for Robb’s victories. It was impossible not to shudder in his presence, especially when he gave her a slip of paper instructing her to come to the queen’s chambers. She knew better than to linger, for her summoner was not a patient woman. To her surprise and relief, there were no Lannister guards waiting in Cersei’s solar with chains meant for her. It was just the queen herself along with two maids, the royal seamstress, and piles of rich fabric.

“Stand there,” Cersei said, nodding at a stool. “Your gowns are far too small.”

Sansa did not need to be told such a thing but she wisely kept her mouth closed as the seamstress stepped closer with a measuring tape. Once all of her measurements were taken, the maids began holding fabrics up so that Cersei, not Sansa, could judge them. It was not like the queen to be generous enough to have dresses made for her, especially after the fire Sansa set in her haste to cover her first moonblood that caused damage to most of her finer gowns.

She couldn’t help but wonder why the queen was suddenly concerned with her ill-fitting clothes. Especially when she muttered that Sansa would need new shifts, smallclothes, night shifts, and a dressing gown as well. If she were braver like Arya, she would ask why Cersei was spending a small fortune on a hostage. Instead, Sansa stepped off the stool when they were finished and gave the queen a low curtsy.

“Thank you for your generosity, Your Grace,” Sansa said quietly.

“It is not me you should thank,” Cersei said, standing up to walk closer to Sansa. “The council has come to an agreement and your former gowns are not fit for a woman flowered who is to be married.”

Sansa’s blood turned to ice in her veins as her heart fell to her stomach.

“No,” she blurted out, shaking her head in a rare moment of disobedience. “I won’t.”

“You will,” Cersei said, her tone bored as if she expected Sansa’s response. “You are a ward of the crown. The king is well within his rights to give your hand to whomever he chooses.”

Her eyes burned but she sank her teeth into her lower lip, refusing to let the tears fall in the queen’s presence.

“Does it not make you happy, little dove?” Cersei asked, a hint of mocking in her voice.

Sansa didn’t answer, releasing her lip to avoid drawing blood

“Who will it be?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I suppose we shall see.”

With that, Cersei dismissed her, the seamstress, and the maids with one careless flick of her hand. Sansa did not hesitate, gathering her skirts and leaving as quickly as her feet could carry her without running. Feeling faint, she paid no attention to where she was walking until she pushed her way through a door and wound up standing on the bridge over the dry moat surrounding Maegor’s Holdfast. Suppressing her panic, Sansa continued her brisk pace through the grounds of the castle without even sparing a glance to her surroundings. She didn’t stop until she found herself in a secluded spot overlooking the bay where ships came and went. Her hands gripped the low stone wall as she fought to breathe past the heavy weight that had settled over her chest. She was barely aware of the tears that slipped down her cheeks, tracing warm paths over her pale skin.

When she heard footsteps, somehow she knew the source. Quickly wiping the tears away, she lifted her head and fixed her eyes upon the ships. He did not speak, remaining several paces behind her as a light breeze ruffled her hair and the leaves of the trees above them. Sansa traced a groove in the stone with her finger, worrying at her lower lip once more as she waited for him to speak. When he did not, she got the sense that he was remaining silent to let her speak, or not speak if she so chose.

“I used to look at these ships and make up stories in my mind about where they were going and why,” Sansa said, her voice still wavering ever so slightly. “Sometimes I wondered if they were going across the Narrow Sea to Volantis or Braavos or if they were seeking treasures in even further places that I’ve never even dreamed of. Every so often, I told myself that they were going north and I imagined sneaking onto such a ship. Once I even described a vessel that was carrying silks to Dorne in exchange for wine. I told myself that it would not return with the wine, but rather that the captain and his crew would remain in Dorne for the coming winter.”

Moments passed in silence after her confession.

“You do not craft these stories now?” Oberyn asked.

Sansa shook her head as one last, lone tear traced a path down her cheek, catching on her lip before she brushed it away.

“It was just a silly distraction for a stupid girl,” she said bitterly.

“What are those ships to you?”

She closed her eyes, imagining the salt-tinged wind whipping through her hair as a ship carried her far away from the capital and all the darkness that existed behind the walls of the keep.

“Freedom,” Sansa breathed out, letting herself exist in that fantasy for a little while longer before opening her eyes as it faded away. “Freedom that I will never have.”

“Never is a dangerous word. Long ago, a woman I knew told me that when a man or woman speaks it, the gods accept the challenge,” Oberyn said.

She finally turned to face him, not bothering to hide her tear-stained cheeks or red-rimmed eyes.

“What do you want from me?” Sansa said, bolder than she’d been in a long while, if only because she was so very tired.

Oberyn titled his head to the side where he was leaning against a tree much like the first time they met.

“Everyone wants something,” she said.

He did not look offended as he straightened up, his glossy black hair falling into his eyes before he brushed it back with a graceful flick of his hand.

“That is true,” Oberyn finally agreed, taking a slow step forward. “You, Lady Stark, are not the first princess to find herself in a precarious situation within the walls of this castle.”

Sansa’s breath hitched in her throat at his words.

“I’m not a princess,” she said in a hushed voice.

“Was your brother not a king?” Oberyn asked, his eyebrow lifting.

“My brother was a traitor,” Sansa said without thinking

“I thought we had an agreement.”

She pressed her lips together, her cheeks burning at the accusation.

“My sister, Elia, lived in chambers that faced the bay,” Oberyn said, turning to look directly at Maegar’s Holdfast. “She wouldn’t have had it any other way. We all loved the water when we were children.”

Sansa could hear the faint sadness and anger in his voice, much like the way her father sounded when he would speak of his long gone siblings. She’d heard stories of what happened to Princess Elia. That her husband left her at the mercy of his father and his enemies when he left King’s Landing to pursue Lyanna Stark, her aunt. But no one showed her or her children mercy. They were slaughtered by Lannister bannermen.

“My father never would have let it happen if he knew,” Sansa said quietly.

Oberyn turned to face her with a strange look upon his face.

“I met your father only once, at the Tourney of Harrenhal. I’d heard that he was a solemn young man who was slow to anger but I saw fire in his cold northern eyes that day. My goodbrother bestowed a crown of blue roses upon Lady Lyanna and every Stark fumed in the aftermath. I was walking with Elia when he saw us and bowed low to her, giving to her all the respect that she deserved and more,” Oberyn said, his eyes far off as he spoke. “Yes, I believe that he would have saved my sister and her children if only he were here to do so.”

Sansa did not know what to say to any of that. She glanced up at Maegor’s Holdfast and wondered if her own fear was at all comparable to what Princess Elia must have felt. Hearing his words, Sansa thought that perhaps Prince Oberyn may be repaying a debt or perhaps seeking to honor his sister by showing her kindness. But she had heard of his hot temper and the stories behind his moniker. This was a man who had been denied justice for his sister’s murder. Sansa knew that her father, honorable as he was, would not have accepted anything less than Aerys’ death after what happened to his father and brother.

“Did you come to the city simply for the king’s wedding?” Sansa asked.

Oberyn glanced her way, his eyes burning with fierce emotions at the memory of his sister’s ill-treatment.

“Is that the truth that you ask me for today, Lady Stark?” he asked.

“You’ve shared many truths with me,” Sansa said with a shake of her head, causing that same errant lock of hair to come loose. “I will not hold you to an answer.”

It was only when she turned away to look out at the ships again that he spoke, one simple word.

“No.”

Sansa’s heart thudded wildly in her chest as she felt rather than saw or heard him come close to her. His chest was mere inches from her back as his hand lifted to brush the loose hair behind her ear once more. His fingers barely grazed her skin but still, it tingled in the wake of his touch.

“Why were you crying?”

It was his turn to ask for a truth. Sansa’s lower lip trembled as she remembered what brought her out here in the first place.

“The king and his council have decided that the time has come for me to wed,” she said, her voice quiet once more. “I’m afraid of what may happen to me.”

Oberyn did not say anything right away, still hovering close behind her as she stared out at the glittering water.

“My lady,” he said, clearly in farewell.

Sansa ached for him to say something. To tell her that she had no reason to fear. She wanted him to lie to her, if only so that she could convince herself that it wouldn’t be so horrible. But instead, she folded her hands atop the stone wall and took a deep breath, knowing that she would not ask him for any of it.

“My prince,” she said in response, her voice distant.

She felt the loss of his proximity as soon as he stepped away. There was no need for her to look around as she heard his receding footsteps. Sansa was alone once more with no hope of escape and a useless longing for freedom. The truth of her situation was crushing, that perhaps not even a man who may or may not be as honorable as her father could save her now. She was well and truly trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I would love to hear what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing! I love you all!

Sansa lingered in the back of Cersei’s retinue, fighting the urge to fidget uncomfortably in the gown that she wore. It was the first of the new gowns made for her. There was a time when she would have relished in the beautiful garment but she felt constricted in the fine material, knowing exactly why she wore it. When there was a banquet, she was either shut away in her chambers or brought out for Joffrey to taunt. Yet tonight, her humiliation would be quite different. Cersei made that very clear.

_ “You will not deny anyone your attention tonight,” the queen said, swirling red wine around the glass she held and not even looking at Sansa as she spoke. “Will you, little dove?” _

As much as she wanted to scream her refusal from the top of the tallest tower so that everyone might hear, Sansa knew that she had no true choice. This feast was as close to a courting as she’d get. Men would ask her to dance and guide her about the ballroom. They’d whisper amongst themselves and point her way, snickering beneath their breath as they watched the latest bout of humiliation that the last child of Winterfell suffered in their midst. Then, over the next few days, there would be petitions for her hand delivered straight to Tywin Lannister.

She wouldn’t get a say in anything at all.

So she fell behind, hoping the walk to the Queen’s Ballroom would last longer if she dragged her slippered feet. As she passed an open window, she glanced at the dry moat that surrounded Maegor’s Holdfast. In that moment, she remembered Queen Helaena Targaryen, who never recovered from her tragedies. Sansa lingered, wondering if she was doomed to a similar fate. If a short fall brought about an immediate death rather than the slow one that the Lannisters planned for her, was it not worth the end of her pain?

Flushing with shame, Sansa brought her eyes forward once more, knowing that her mother would be horrified at her thoughts if she were still alive.  _ I am a wolf _ , she told herself, clinging to the words.  _ I can be brave.  _ Pressing her lips together, Sansa kept her tears at bay as they descended the stairs to the ballroom. The festivities had already begun. She quickly found her place at one of the lower tables with the rest of Cersei’s ladies. Sansa ate and drank quietly, keeping her head down and her body folded in as small as possible. Yet it was not enough.

Before she knew it, she was swept into the dancing couples and forced to keep light on her toes and a smile upon her face. Sansa felt stripped of all comfort as eyes from every part of the ballroom settled on her. There was no respite as she was passed from man to man, forced to endure unwelcome hands and mocking gazes. Everyone seemed to know what this meant. It wasn’t until one song ended that the son of a Westerlands lord dared to pull her in far too close and murmur a crude suggestion in her ear. Tears stung at her eyes just as a hand reached out to grasp her partner’s shoulder.

“Pardon me,” an unfamiliar voice reached her ears.

Sansa looked around with wide eyes, recognizing the handsome, youthful face that greeted her. She searched her mind for his name but could not recall ever being told. To her relief, his mere presence caused the lord’s son to release Sansa and step away.

“Touch me again, bastard, and I’ll have your hand,” he spat before walking away.

Sansa felt sympathy for the knight but there was no offense in his eyes as he bowed low to her.

“Ser Daemon Sand, my lady,” he said, straightening up and holding his hand out to her. “May I have the honor?”

She nodded, giving him her own hand. His touch was gentle as he led her through the simple steps of the dance, keeping a respectful distance. Sansa had the feeling that he was following the command of his prince to intervene yet she was grateful nonetheless.

“Thank you, Ser Daemon,” she said quietly.

“It is no hardship, Lady Stark,” he said, giving her a smile. “I should be thanking you.”

Sansa tilted her head to the side with confusion.

“For what?”

“A dance with a beautiful lady is a gift,” he said.

There was something in his low, smooth voice that reminded her of Prince Oberyn. It almost seemed as if he was offended on her behalf, a thought which puzzled her greatly. They only just met. Why would he feel anything of the sort?

“Is this your first journey to King’s Landing, ser?” Sansa asked, falling back on her courtesies to keep from making a fool of herself.

“It is,” Daemon nodded, leading her gracefully through the dance. “Gods willing, it may well be my last.”

Sansa’s stomach dropped at the thought of it. When the wedding was over, all of the castle’s guests would go back to their own lands, including Prince Oberyn and his company. The realization was not a welcome one.

“I imagine that Dorne is much different from here,” Sansa said wistfully.

“A land full of savages and beasts, if most of these lords and ladies are to believed,” Daemon said, sounding more amused than offended by the assumptions made about his home and people.

Sansa gave him a look of surprise. His unsparing honesty was much like Oberyn’s and she wondered if that was a common trait that the Dornish shared. Or perhaps it was something that the prince encouraged among the people that he surrounded himself with. Either way, it was something that she was quickly coming to appreciate.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, feeling the need to assure him.

He gave her an appreciative look, nodding once.

“Dorne is magnificent.”

She believed him, if only for the treasured love that she could hear in his voice. It was the same way that she thought of Winterfell. The music ended and she tensed in preparation for the next man who sought her company. Yet rather than step away to take his bow, Daemon kept Sansa’s hand clasped loosely in his and escorted her away from the dancers. Relief filled her as she took a deep breath and let herself grow calm once more. When she realized that he was leading her straight towards Oberyn, who was conversing with Garlan Tyrell near the high table, Sansa felt a rush of gratitude once more. 

She didn’t notice Joffrey or Cersei until the former called out her name in a mocking tone. She wasn’t the only one who lifted her eyes to the king. Daemon did the same, as well as most of the people around them. Sansa felt her cheeks growing hot as Joffrey grinned down at her, his wine cup held loosely in his hand as his glittering eyes ran over her figure before returning to her face. He looked positively delighted, which meant nothing good for her. When he leaned forward and opened his mouth, disregarding Margaery as she touched his shoulder lightly, Sansa pressed her lips together in a thin line and steeled herself for the worst.

“My mother tells me of your happy news,” Joffrey said, his cruel voice carrying easily. “Soon to be married, I hear. You must be thrilled.”

Sansa dropped her hands to hide in the folds of her gown, her eyes darting to a vaguely interested Cersei and a stone-faced Tywin before moving back to Joffrey.

“I am honored, Your Grace,” she said, her voice barely rising above the din. “Queen Cersei has been very kind to offer her counsel to me. I certainly do not deserve it.”

“Perhaps you’ll marry a loyal bannerman,” Joffrey continued as if she hadn’t even spoken, his eyes shining with wicked mirth. “The Mountain has been dutiful. Maybe we will offer you as a reward. What do you think of that?”

Sansa swallowed her fear at his words, calling to mind the rumors of what happened to Gregor Clegane’s first two wives, as well as Elia Martell. Her response died on her lips as she felt Oberyn grow tense next to her. Much to her surprise, Tywin himself turned his cold eyes towards his grandson and said something that she could not hear. Whatever it was pulled Joffrey’s attention away from her just long enough for her to be released from his attention. When Sansa looked to Oberyn, she saw that his jaw was clenched and his dark eyes blazed with anger.

“My prince?” she said softly.

His eyes darted to her, fierce and burning as they were, stealing the breath from her chest. Sansa did not know what to make of this side of him that she had not yet seen. The hand that twitched towards his belt, where a dagger was usually sheathed, and the working muscles in his jaw betrayed his anger at the mere mention of the man who was rumored to have killed his sister. This was the famed Red Viper that caused so many people to feel uneasy at his presence. Sansa did not know what she felt. But she knew that she preferred the man who started a simple game of truth with her.

“This is a fine song,” she said aloud.

Oberyn blinked once and the change was instantaneous. His eyes darted over her shoulder to Ser Daemon who still stood with them and he nodded once to an unspoken question that she did not see. Then he was offering his hand to her.

“Shall we take advantage of it?” Oberyn asked.

Sansa nodded with relief, carefully slipping her hand into his. He turned away from the high table and Sansa followed suit. Just before he could lead her away, her eyes met Cersei’s narrowed, suspicious gaze. But she could not dwell on it for long as Oberyn escorted her back towards the minstrels. Sansa was in no mood to dance but neither did she want to turn around and walk back the other way. So she allowed Oberyn to lead her into the dancers. There was still a slight bit of distance in his eyes as they went through the motions. She did not know why she felt the need to bring him out of his thoughts. Perhaps it was because she knew how terrifying one’s mind could be sometimes, after her own dark thoughts earlier in the evening.

“Why did you come to King’s Landing, my prince?” Sansa asked.

Oberyn’s eyes met hers and the slightest smile pulled at his lips.

“Ah yes,” he said, nodding at her. “Our little game.”

She nodded as well, twirling when the dance demanded it of her before returning her gaze to him.

“Justice,” Oberyn said simply.

“For your sister?”

“I believe that it is your turn to offer a truth.”

Sansa knew that he was right.

“I used to adore dancing,” she admitted.

Oberyn’s eyebrow rose, betraying his curiosity

“Used to?” he said.

Sansa didn’t let him get away with a second question in a row, just as he refused to allow her.

“Is it for your sister? This justice you seek?” she asked.

“Among other things,” Oberyn said mysteriously.

Before she could speak, they separated for a few moments, following the steps of the dance before coming back together. Sansa took both of his hands and looked away from him as she spoke.

“You have been kind to me,” she said, paying attention to her feet only so that she did not trod on his toes. “Which is more than I can say for most people in this city. I daresay that I have done nothing to deserve it. But I also fear it.”

“Why?” Oberyn asked.

“Because everyone wants something,” she said, looking up into his eyes.

He didn’t speak another word, holding her gaze throughout the song and stepping away only when it ended. Rather than release her, Oberyn led her to a servant, accepting two cups of wine before handing one over to her.

“Are you happy to be married?” he asked, sounding as though he already knew the answer.

“I-I am a woman flowered,” Sansa said, holding her cup in both hands.

Oberyn’s eyes narrowed slightly and she knew that it was not a real answer. But he did not ridicule her for it.

“In Dorne, we do not force women into marriage as soon as they are flowered,” he said, glancing away from her. “My niece is nearly four and twenty. She isn’t even betrothed..”

Her heart ached painfully in her chest at his words. As much as she longed for the choice that Dorne seemed to offer its daughters, she knew that it was far too painful to wish for a choice she would never have.

“I think that I would like your home quite a lot,” Sansa admitted, taking a long, fortifying sip.

Oberyn’s eyes didn’t waver from hers.

“You may see it one day,” he said.

His words sounded much like the truths that he’d shared thus far, confident and unyielding. Sansa did not know whether to believe him. But she knew that she wanted to and it was hard to know what to make of that.

“Do you know the story of Queen Helaena?” she asked, the word slipping free from her wine-loosened lips.

Oberyn’s eyes grew hard and he stepped closer to her, lowering his voice when he responded. She should have been frightened at his sudden proximity but the fear did not come.

“That will not be your fate, Sansa Stark,” he said.

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat at the sound of her given name on his lips for the first time. Before she could say anything in return, her eyes caught on a Lannister bannerman who was approaching with intent in his eyes.

“Cersei told me not to deny anyone my attention tonight,” she said, her voice shaking slightly at the thought of being swept back into the fray.

“Then we will have to keep you dancing,” Oberyn said without a moment’s hesitation.

Before she knew it, he was leading her to the dancing couples once more, where Ser Daemon Sand lingered with several other men from the Dornish company. He kept true to his word and until the banquet ended, Sansa found herself dancing on the arm of one Dornishman or another. As she lay in bed hours after the banquet, she realized that she’d begun to trust Prince Oberyn without realizing. It was a startling yet comforting thought that carried her into sleep with little trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I would love to hear what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you all so much for the lovely comments. They really keep me going and I appreciate them more than I can even say. <3

Sansa was in the middle of bathing behind a screen when the knock came on her door. Despite the warm water, a shiver ran down her spine as she imagined a summons to the council chamber to be told of her impending marriage. Or perhaps a direct command from Joffrey to drag her to the Great Hall whether she was appropriately dressed or not. Instead she heard an unfamiliar woman’s voice, though her accent sounded Dornish in nature.

“Is your mistress still abed?” she asked.

“No milady,” Shae said as Sansa sat up slowly, careful not to splash water outside of the tub.

The woman let out a low laugh and Sansa could picture the face of Oberyn’s striking paramour, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement and her stained lips lifted into a mischievous smile.

“I’m not a lady,” she corrected Shae, laughter still in her voice. “Not like the lovely princess that you serve. Would you give her a message?”

Sansa’s cheeks grew hot and she prayed to the gods that no one heard Ellaria Sand’s bold words. Before the fear could grow, Shae answered warily, assuring the other woman that she would give the message while knowing that Sansa would hear every word.

“My lover and I request her company at her leisure and with her consent,” Ellaria said.

Sansa blinked, finding it impossible not to feel surprised that Prince Oberyn sent his longtime mistress to fetch her. Their strange friendship wasn’t more than that but Sansa assumed that there was a reason she hadn’t been introduced to Ellaria Sand before. Yet it seemed like the woman was all too glad to request her company. There were rumors of the proclivities that Oberyn and Ellaria shared but this seemed strange even in spite of it all.

“Where should I tell her to find you if she consents?” Shae asked.

“The stables,” Ellaria answered, a smile still in her voice. “And I would suggest that she wear riding boots. You are invited as well.”

“I have no riding boots,” Sansa’s handmaiden said plainly.

“Shame.”

Ellaria sounded somewhat disappointed before she bid Shae goodbye and left. Once the door shut quietly behind her, Sansa felt the tension in her shoulders ease as she sat back in the water and captured her lower lip in her teeth. Shae remained on the other side of the screen but she was clearly waiting for her to say something. Skimming her fingertips over the water, Sansa searched her mind for what she should do. She felt conflicted, and rightly so. If Septa Mordane were still there, she would absolutely forbid it. As would Sansa’s lady mother. But they were both gone and she was here, fighting every single day to keep her wits about her and her heart still beating. It was incredibly tempting to lean on someone who had treated her with nothing but kindness, as the prince of Dorne had.

“Should I respond to their invitation or will you do so yourself?” Shae asked through the screen.

Taking in a deep breath, Sansa leaned her head back against the lip of the tub and let her eyes slip closed. There was a strange ache in her chest, a longing to experience even the slightest taste of freedom. The consequences may well be terrible if Cersei or Joffrey found out but somehow Sansa trusted that Oberyn would not knowingly put her in danger.

“Fetch my boots.”

A short while later, she made her way to the outer courtyard and, feeling more wary than before, approached the stables slowly. Her one riding dress was tight around the chest and her sleeves were slightly too short. Sansa could only hope that no one noticed. She only made it as far as the entrance to the stables when she stopped short to admire the stallion that Oberyn was saddling himself. The horse was black as night everywhere except for his mane and tail, both of which were the color of fire. He stomped and snorted but his master looked utterly unconcerned, clicking his tongue and rubbing at the horse’s nose before turning his attention to Sansa as if he knew she was there all along.

“Lady Stark,” he said, sweeping into a low bow.

“Prince Oberyn,” she replied quietly, sinking into a curtsy.

As he straightened up and tossed his glossy black hair out of his face in a graceful movement, he gave her a smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. He looked pleased at her presence, which put Sansa at ease as she took another few steps into the stables.

“Are you a fair rider?” Oberyn asked.

Her face fell as shame filled her. Lowering her eyes to the ground, Sansa shook her head.

“It’s been quite a while since I’ve ridden, my prince,” she admitted.

In truth, it had been years. When Joffrey left the keep for a hunt, she was only ever grateful that he did not force her to come along. She’d spent enough time in the vicinity of his prized crossbow for a thousand lifetimes. She heard Oberyn approach and braced herself for a disappointed dismissal. Instead he took her chin very gently between his finger and thumb and lifted her head until her eyes met his again.

“Worry not,” he said, brushing his thumb very lightly over her jawline. “It will be a leisurely ride, nothing too strenuous.”

Sansa managed to keep herself in check and resist the temptation to lean into his touch. It was all too familiar for an unmarried maid and a man with a reputation but she did not wish to pull away, so she did not.

“The king may not be pleased,” Sansa said, dread filling her heart at the thought of Joffrey turning his anger on Oberyn or those close to him.

“The king is planning a grandiose wedding and his grandfather is far too busy with the roses growing strong in his den to concern himself with our little jaunt,” he said confidently.

Relief rose in her chest but there was still one issue to be dealt with, one that she was certain would have him sending her back to her chambers for the difficulty she brought.

“I have no horse,” she said.

“Didn’t I tell you not to worry?” Oberyn asked, his lips tilting up in a smile.

She nodded, biting back a smile of her own.

“I don’t wish to be a hindrance,” she told him.

“Have I ever given you reason to believe that I see you as such?” Oberyn asked.

Sansa shook her head, swallowing hard at the intensity of his gaze. He was far closer than he had been before, even while they were dancing. Her skin felt quite warm and her chest tight as he persisted in the soft touch at her jaw. 

“Oh let the poor girl breathe,” a familiar voice rose up from further within the stables.

Sansa peered around Oberyn at Ellaria, who was accompanied by Dornish servants that lead two smaller horses by the reins. Unlike Sansa’s hair, which was braided in a thick rope over her shoulder, Ellaria’s thick, curly hair flowed mostly free with the exception of two sections that were pinned up just behind her temples.

“You must pardon this scoundrel,” Ellaria said as she reached them, flicking her eyes towards Oberyn before returning her attention to Sansa. “He is desperate to exercise himself as much as his horse. Come, we shall whisper amongst ourselves and make him mad with jealousy.”

Oberyn looked playfully offended as his paramour joined her arm with Sansa’s and swept her away towards the horses that awaited them.

“I am quite pleased that you accepted our invitation,” Ellaria said quietly, tilting her head towards Sansa’s. “For the past month, I’ve heard countless mentions of your name. I’ve been waiting for him to bring you along with him to meet myself and our companions, considering how enamored he is of you, but he was determined not to frighten you away.”

Enamored? Sansa looked at Ellaria with confusion creasing her brow, wondering how she should respond. Did this woman feel no possession over the man whose children she had carried? They were unmarried but Sansa knew that things were done differently in Dorne. She suspected that they were as good as husband and wife in the southernmost kingdom. Did it not bother her if Oberyn was, as she said, enamored of Sansa? It was difficult to believe, though she had the sense that honesty was valued in Dorne. She didn’t see how anyone could care for her at all.

“I apologize,” she said shyly, diverting her eyes from the bold woman. “It was not my intention to keep him from you.”

Ellaria let out a laugh much like the one she heard earlier that morning with her head tossed back and her eyes shining with delight.

“If that sort of thing deserved an apology, many people in this city would have to answer to the both of us,” she said with a salacious grin.

“Many?” Sansa said before she could help herself, her eyes growing wide once more.

“Many,” Ellaria confirmed.

Her cheeks warmed even more as they reached the horses that awaited them.

“I am feeling rather forsaken,” Oberyn said from behind them.

“It is no less than you deserve,” Ellaria said, though there was a teasing lilt to her voice.

Glancing over her shoulder, Sansa met his amused gaze with a reserved smile. He winked at her in return, making her heart flutter curiously in her chest.

“Make use of yourself, would you?” Ellaria said, pulling away from Sansa.

She stood beside the borrowed horse hesitantly, expecting Oberyn to cross to his paramour’s side to help her into her own saddle. Instead, a Martell guard stepped forward to help her onto her horse as Ellaria gave him a smile. Oberyn hovered at Sansa’s side, offering his help to her. She nodded once yet inhaled sharply when his hands went to her hips and lifted her, allowing her feet to find the stirrups so that she could settle herself in the saddle. Sansa barely managed to turn her head before he was swinging into his steed’s saddle with little effort, stroking a gentle hand through the horse’s radiant mane before taking the reins.

Then he looked to Sansa and Ellaria, awaiting their nods before urging his horse into a trot out to the courtyard. Only two guards accompanied them and neither wore the Lannister red that Sansa feared so much, but rather the curious copper armor that every Dornish guard wore. By the time they made it out of the gates, Sansa felt the uneasy sensation that she woke up with every morning fade just a little bit. She found herself riding between Oberyn and Ellaria, feeling oddly comforted by it. Even the discomfort of relearning how to sit upon a saddle and master a horse did not stop the elation she felt at the distance that she was putting between herself and the Red Keep.

“How does it feel?” Oberyn asked as though he could see into her mind.

She looked over at him, unable to stop the smile that tugged at her lips and brightened her eyes.

“Liberating,” Sansa breathed.

His answering smile was warm and brilliant and comforting all at once. As much as she wanted to ask why he and Ellaria invited her along, Sansa did not want to question it at the moment. All that she wanted to do was enjoy their growing distance from the castle that was her prison. They meandered their way through the Hook and Fishmonger’s Square before finding themselves on River Row. Merchants with their carts lining the streets and Sansa allowed herself to admire some of the trinkets from afar without looking for too long.

The look of Oberyn and the guards, each of whom carried a spear and had a sword sheathed at their belts, managed to keep anyone from bothering them too much. By the time they made it to the King’s Gate, Sansa was itching to ignore her inexperience and send her horse into a gallop. Yet she did not, keeping a tight hold on the reins as she rode through and finally, if only temporarily, breathed air outside of King’s Landing. Sansa drew her horse up short and tilted her head back, letting her eyes flutter closed as she inhaled deeply, letting it all out in a slow breath before lowering her head once more.

When she opened her eyes, she felt Oberyn and Ellaria gazing at her and glanced at them shyly. The sadness and sympathy in their dark eyes took her aback and Sansa felt the oddest urge to comfort them. Instead she turned her face away and recognized where they were, urging her horse forward once more. There were a few buildings scattered here and there but it was nothing compared to the crowded heap that existed within the walls of the city. When they reached a large open area, Sansa glanced around and tried to envision it all as she remembered.

“These are the tourney grounds, are they not?” Oberyn said.

“They are,” Sansa answered him, sadness in her voice.

She felt his eyes upon her but did not look his way, trying to battle the emotions that rose in her at memories this place brought to the surface.

“What is it?” Ellaria said gently, prompting her where Oberyn would not.

She swallowed hard before answering.

“When I first came to the city, there was a tourney for my father,” Sansa said, allowing her horse to roam at her leisure as she remembered how thrilled her younger self had been at it all. “He resented that King Robert thought it necessary but I was so happy that I gave no thought for how he felt. Father never liked extravagance. He would rather use coin and resources to feed a hundred poor families than give men a reason to bloody themselves and risk death for a reward.”

Several moments passed before a response came in which Sansa’s lower lip trembled and a lone tear slipped down her face.

“He sounds like a good man,” Ellaria said gravely.

Sansa jolted, realizing that she’d forgotten that they were there at all and that there was no blow awaiting her for speaking of her father as anything but a traitor. Meeting Ellaria’s gaze, she nodded slowly as another tear joined the first.

“He was,” she said, her voice thick. “I was so foolish. I thought that every man was the same, just like him. It wasn’t until he died that I truly understood and I wish…”

Sansa trailed off, her words catching in her throat. This was the first time she’d spoken any of her thoughts aloud since that day on the steps of the Baelor’s Sept.

“There was much that I regretted with Elia,” Oberyn said, his voice quiet and more somber than she’d ever heard it.

She turned to look at him, seeing all of the grief in his eyes that she felt in her heart.

“I wish that I’d spirited my sister and her children away from this godsless city as soon as word reached Dorne of Rhaegar’s foolish actions. Perhaps if I had, they’d still be alive and well in the Old Palace,” he said, his gaze distant and his fingers clenched tight around his reins.

It was easy to imagine the plight of Elia Martell as she lived in a castle filled with danger and uncertainty. Sansa could imagine the Dornish princess standing at the window of her chambers waiting for orange banners to appear on the horizon, much like she’d awaited the grey and white banners of her own house to come marching to her rescue, her brother at the forefront. It was hard to accept the fact that Robb never came while he was alive and even more difficult to recall her anger at him now that he was gone.

“Why didn’t you?” Sansa asked, hoping that Oberyn did not take offense to the question.

He did not seem angered by it, though his eyes did darken slightly at whatever memory her question sparked.

“My brother interceded,” he said simply.

She wondered if anyone interceded with Robb’s plans to free her, or if such plans existed at all. Perhaps she was dismissed as a loss of war. Now she was all alone in the world, the last wolf who was barely a wolf at all. She could not figure out why a prince would be so eager to know her when she wasn’t anyone of note anymore. If he all that he sought was justice for his sister, befriending Sansa wouldn’t help him. She was only a burden to those who knew her, whether he understood it or not.

“Why have you been so kind to me?” she said, all but demanding another truth.

Ellaria looked to Oberyn, who met Sansa’s questioning gaze unflinchingly.

“It is not in my nature to ignore suffering,” he said, his voice still solemn. “I sense that far too many people have done everything they could to disregard yours.”

She shook her head, his words striking deep.

“They did not disregard it, my lord,” Sansa said, her voice wavering. “They watched it happen and they laughed.”

Oberyn’s face changed all at once, going from grave sadness to burning anger in an instant.

“Watched what happen?” he demanded, his words sharp.

Sansa fought the urge to flinch away from him, though her breath hitched slightly. It seemed impossible that he did not know. Word spread quickly in the Red Keep and even those who weren’t present at court for Joffrey’s punishments quickly learned of them. But apparently Oberyn and his company did not befriend the type of people who discussed it openly. Perhaps he truly did not know of the humiliating appearances she was forced to make in front of the entire court, stripped and beaten for Joffrey’s amusement. It was possible that he did not know of the scars that littered her back, payment for her traitor’s blood.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sansa said.

His eyes narrowed but Ellaria reached out and touched his arm before he could argue.

“You invited her out of the city for a reason,” she said quietly.

Sansa sat up a little straighter, alert and nearly panicked at the words. Why would he want to speak with her out of the city? Did he intend to do worse than speak with her? Was all of this some grand trick to get her alone? Did he seek to satisfy his need for revenge by taking the life of Lyanna Stark’s niece? The only Stark left to suffer the consequences for a princess’s dishonor and death. Her face must have shown her thoughts because Ellaria easily noticed her panic.

“Speak your mind, Oberyn,” she urged.

He looked hesitant for the first time since Sansa met him. Any peace that she’d found outside of the city walls was gone, leaving behind a sick feeling in her stomach.

“I brought you here along with my paramour to extend you an offer,” Oberyn said.

Sansa wet her dry lips and waited to hear more, unable to bring herself to speak again until she heard what he had to say.

“You fear the plans the Lannisters have in store for you. I may have a way to solve it all,” he continued, keeping his voice level and his eyes fixed on her. “I offer you an escape from this city and a life of comfort and peace, only with your consent.”

Her eyes darted around, expecting to see an army of red or gold cloaks awaiting her response. There was also an awful feeling in her gut that told her it wasn’t as simple as all of that.

“What do you ask for in return?” Sansa asked quietly.

“Your trust,” Oberyn said.

She felt as though that wasn’t enough. There had to be more. Sansa was not the empty-headed woman that Cersei and Joffrey accused her of being. She knew that there was no leaving King’s Landing without a husband at her side. Oberyn and Ellaria knew that she understood. They had to. That was why he brought Ellaria out there at all. It was to reassure her that they stood together. She just did not know where she stood. Sensing her conflict, Oberyn pulled on his reins and led his horse closer to her.

“When you are ready, we will accompany you back to the keep and give you time to consider it,” he said in a low voice that she suspected only she could hear. “And if you give me your trust, I vow to you that the next time you ride out of those gates will be the last time you lay eyes upon this city.”

Sansa did not know what to say. Her mind was overwhelmed with thoughts and fears and worst possible outcomes if she agreed to this. So she simply nodded, unable to find her voice again. It was times like this that she wished for her mother or Septa Mordane to tell her what she should do. Perhaps even Arya would give her sound advice. But she had no one to tell her what to do so she had to make the decision herself. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. Sansa knew that she would need the time that he was offering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm apparently feeling incredibly motivated because you all get three chapters in as many days. I hope that you all enjoy this one!

Sansa tried her best not to seem overly rushed but she feared that she did not succeed as she excused herself from the stables once they returned from the short ride. Though she needed the distance to come to terms with the truth of Oberyn’s offer, her feet drew up short just outside of the stables and she took a moment to catch her breath, pressing her hand over her abdomen and inhaling deeply. She did not intend to eavesdrop but when familiar voices carried her way, she could not help but overhear.

“We spoke to her too soon,” Oberyn said, his voice more weary than she’d ever heard it. 

“You said yourself that time is not on our side. She deserves a more gentle courtship but this is not the time for such things,” Ellaria reminded him.

Sansa’s sharp intake of breath couldn’t be heard amidst the activity of the courtyard but pressed a hand over her mouth nonetheless. Marriage was the answer, much like she suspected. There was no other escape for her. The Lannisters and the Tyrells circled her like vultures, wanting her claim for their own. Any child that she bore would be heir to the North, no matter who served as warden for the time being. Margaery and her family, kind though they seemed, were as hungry for power as Cersei and Tywin.

As much as she wanted to trust that the Dornish prince and his paramour had different aims in mind, she didn’t yet know if she could give the trust they wanted from her. There was a part of her that longed for what they offered, like the moth drawn to a warm, comforting flame. But she’d been burned before, by beautiful words and hopeful vows. By those who promised kindness to her only to drag her down with cruel smiles and hard hearts. Sansa would not make that mistake again, no matter how much her heart pleaded for Oberyn’s words to be true.

“I worked to earn her trust with every word that I spoke and now I feel as though it is all wasted,” she heard, the prince’s voice still carrying to her ears. “I made a fool of myself trying to explain my intentions and now she may never again look upon me with confidence.”

Sansa let her hands drop, her teeth worrying at her lower lip as she readied herself to walk away. But Ellaria’s next words stopped her yet again.

“You made a mistake, yes,” Ellaria agreed after a moment. “But it was not offering her an escape. It was leaving her alone with her thoughts. A kind gesture but not what she needs. Nor is it what you need. There is much more that needs to be said.”

“Perhaps you should be the one to say it,” Oberyn suggested, sounding almost miserable.

Sansa couldn’t imagine that she was the one who made him feel this way. The famed Red Viper of Dorne, anguished by the uncertainty of a simple girl. It was too impossible to believe, yet she could hear it for herself. Did they know she stood there? Was it a show for her benefit? Certainly not. As far as they knew, she was halfway to her chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast.

“It needs to be you, my love,” Ellaria said, her voice soft and yet unyielding. “You have her trust, not I.”

Oberyn let out a heavy, burdened sigh at that.

“My brother would know what to say. He always knows the right words to use.”

“That is quite enough of that,” Ellaria said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Doran is not here. He is not the one who brought Sansa Stark around with his words. You did, my love. Now finish what you started.”

There was a long beat of silence between them and Sansa listened closely, wondering if they were walking towards her.

“I can see why you’ve grown so fond of her,” Ellaria said, a soothing sound to her voice. “She’s lovely, though her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. I know how it must pain you.”

“She possesses a fierceness too,” Oberyn said, his voice heavy and rough all at once. “They’ve tried to kill the wolf in her but I believe that it is still there.”

Sansa’s heart stuttered in her chest as she wondered if he truly saw that in her.

“Talk with her. Give her no reason to doubt your intentions. Then perhaps we will see the wolf in time,” Ellaria encouraged him.

Inhaling deeply, Sansa finally forced herself to move. There was much for her to consider and, true to Ellaria’s words, little time to do so. As she crossed the castle grounds, she barely took note of her surroundings, her head too full of thoughts to pay heed to anyone or anything around her.

*****

After changing out of the riding habit and washing the dust off of her skin and hair, the last thing that Sansa expected was for Ellaria to show up at her chamber door for the second time that day. This time she requested entrance, which Sansa nodded at Shae to permit her as she tugged a threadbare dressing gown on over her shift and corset. She did not know how to greet Ellaria. With any other woman in the keep, Sansa would curtsey and address her as was appropriate. But this particular woman seemed to shun any proper address so she remained upright and forced a polite smile onto her face.

“Hello again,” Ellaria said, giving her a far more genuine smile. “I would like speak with you, if you agree.”

She nodded, her hand twitching nervously to her damp hair. Taking a confident step towards her, Ellaria glanced over at Shae before returning her gaze to Sansa.

“Would you like me to dress your hair?” she offered. “I miss doing so for my daughters.”

The mention of her children with Oberyn jolted Sansa. He’d been so kind to her and Sansa would hesitantly admit, if only to herself, that he was a handsome man and likely the closest she’d get to the match her father wished for her. But could she marry a man with eight bastards to his name? Her mother hadn’t been able to stomach the one. Would Sansa be able to forge herself into a different sort of wife? She certainly did not begrudge Oberyn any of his children. Especially if they made him happy. But making peace with it as a bystander was one thing. Reconciling herself with it as his wife would be quite another. Realizing that Ellaria was awaiting her answer, Sansa nodded her head once more.

“Perhaps your maid could take your gown to be washed,” Ellaria suggested.

Shae gave the woman a tight, displeased look but Sansa was smart enough to realize that the topic of conversation may sway towards things that no one, even her handmaiden, should overhear right now.

“Yes,” Sansa said, earning a look of surprise and annoyance from Shae. “And please arrange for my supper after that.”

“Oberyn and I hoped that you would join our company in the gardens for supper,” Ellaria interceded.

The thought of dining with Oberyn, Ellaria, and their companions from Dorne caused her heart to stutter nervously in her chest. Yet somehow Sansa knew that they would be far more pleasant dinner companions than those she’d been forced to sup with before.

“That sounds quite pleasant,” Sansa said, glancing from Ellaria to Shae. “You may take the night for yourself after you deliver my gown.”

They both watched as her handmaiden gathered her riding habit and left after a shallow, half-hearted curtsy in Sansa’s direction.

“She is spirited,” Ellaria said with a small smile upon her face, guiding Sansa to sit at her dressing table before picking up her brush.

“She’s protective of me,” she said, folding her hands gently in her lap. “She often warns me to guard myself around others. I think that she is suspicious of your motives, as well as that of your prince.”

Sansa watched in the mirror as the other woman’s smile grew more pronounced.

“She is not the only one, I think,” Ellaria said, running the brush gently through her long hair. “Everyone wonders why Oberyn journeyed here. Perhaps soon they will have their answer.”

She knew better than to think that Oberyn would bring Ellaria and a company of Dornish noblemen and women to King’s Landing purely so that he could come to know her and perhaps wed her. Unless he sought to secure her claim for Dorne, as she feared, then Ellaria must be referring to the justice that he sought for his sister’s death. She did not want to ask about it, even if she suspected that Ellaria may answer her. Oberyn had to be the one, for a reason that she did not surely know.

“You have four daughters?” Sansa asked, changing the subject entirely.

“Eight,” Ellaria said, a fond look coming over her face. “I treat every one of Oberyn’s snakes as they came from my own womb. Do you know their names?”

She shook her head, watching as she brushed her hair in repetitive, soothing motions.

“Obara, Nymeria, Tyene, Sarella, Elia, Obella, Dorea, and Loreza, in that order.”

“How old is the youngest?” Sansa asked.

“Nearly seven,” Ellaria said, gently using her fingers to separate a particularly stubborn knot. “I dearly hope that we return to Sunspear before her nameday.”

She could hear the love that Ellaria had for her children in her voice. It reminded Sansa of her mother.

“My youngest brother, Rickon, was only three when I left Winterfell,” Sansa said, her mind recalling a boy with hair as red as her own and chubby cheeks constantly ruddy from his boisterous nature. “I remember the day that he was born. My mother labored for a night and a day before bringing him into this world. Everyone was so certain that the Stark look would win out but his Tully side refused to be hidden. I was told that he had the most hair of any of us when he was born. He would be nearly five now, if…”

She trailed off, the words dying on her lips.  _ If he were not dead, like the rest of my family. _ That is how the sentence ended but she had no desire to say it. Ellaria’s eyes lifted to meet hers in the mirror, filled with grave understanding.

“How do Northern women dress their hair?” she asked, not asking about her family much to Sansa’s relief.

“My mother favored simple braids,” Sansa said, reaching up to stroke her fingers over a lock of her hair. “She mostly wore two small ones that would come together at the crown of her head. The rest she would leave loose.”

“That sounds lovely,” Ellaria said, already sectioning off the hair.

Sansa sat quietly, watching her hands carefully weave her hair into the the braids that she’d described.

“Oberyn thinks that he may have frightened you.”

Her eyes snapped up to Ellaria’s face in the mirror but she did not return the look, keeping her attention on Sansa’s hair. She didn’t want to reveal that she’d heard every word they spoke, for fear that they would be offended.

“He didn’t,” she said simply.

Ellaria’s eyebrow rose just a little bit but she did not outright challenge her.

“He did not explain himself as he should. No one would blame you for fearing the worst. But he wishes for the chance to make it right and assure you of his intentions,” she continued.

Sansa wanted to insist that it was not necessary but she knew that her words would likely fall on deaf ears. So she twisted her fingers in her dressing gown and dropped her gaze to the table where she sat.

“I do not wish to fear him,” she said quietly.

Ellaria’s hands stilled for just a moment before she continued, sliding pins into her hair to hold the braids.

“You cannot help your fears.”

“But he always speaks the truth to me. I wish to repay him with more than fear,” Sansa said, speaking more to herself.

Ellaria’s hand found her cheek, brushing the softest touch over her skin. Lifting her eyes, she met her gaze in the mirror once more.

“I cannot imagine what you have suffered in this place. Trust is earned and you have every right to give yours sparingly. Give us the chance and I promise that you will find us worthy of it,” Ellaria said.

Sansa did not know what to say. She felt slightly overwhelmed once more so all that she did was nod in return.

“I’m finished,” Ellaria said with a triumphant smile, stepping back. “Do you approve?”

“It is well done,” Sansa said, reaching up to touch the braids lightly enough that she did not ruin them. “Thank you.”

“Shall I help you dress?”

She nearly assented but then remembered one of the scars that was high on her back, peeking out over her shift, and that neither Ellaria nor Oberyn knew of the marks upon her skin.

“I have a gown that laces in the front,” Sansa said as she stood.

“Then I shall wait for you here,” Ellaria said.

*****

They looked quite the pair as they entered the gardens. Ellaria’s yellow silk dress stood at a stark contrast to the muted lavender of Sansa’s own gown, not to mention his paramour’s luscious, thick curls and Sansa’s radiant auburn waves. Their beauty put the colors of the sunset at his back to shame. As Oberyn greeted them with a bow, he was certain that only Ellaria’s hold on Sansa’s arm kept her from curtsying in return. To his utter relief, she did not look fearful at his presence.

“It is my honor to have at my side the most beautiful ladies in the city,” he said.

Sansa’s cheeks filled with that delightful pink flush while Ellaria simply grinned at him. Offering his arms to both women, Sansa did not hesitate to take his right, ever the polite lady, while Ellaria leaned in to kiss him first. Sansa’s blush was even more pronounced as he led them to the large table that was laden with many foods, many of them Dornish. Yet there were a few foods that he knew that Sansa would recognize and her relief was palpable when she spotted them. Every eye turned to Sansa upon their approach as Oberyn pulled chairs out for the both of them.

“This is the lovely Lady Stark,” he introduced to her them all.

They all welcomed her without hesitation, much to his satisfaction. Oberyn waved the servants forward as soon as they all sat, allowing them to pour Dornish sour red for them all as well as a cup of honey-sweetened milk for Sansa.

“Many of our foods are filled with Dornish peppers. The milk will soothe your tongue if you wish to try any of them,” he said at her confused look.

Sansa blinked at him with surprise, clearly not expecting the courtesy, before she gave him a small smile and thanked him quietly. Oberyn nodded in response, waiting for her to fill her plate before doing so himself.

“Shall I tell you the names of our friends from Dorne?” he asked.

“If it pleases you, my prince,” Sansa said politely as she cut a small piece of chicken.

“Would it please you?” Oberyn said, placing his hand upon the back of her chair as he turned his attention to her fully.

She didn’t answer him for a long moment.

“Yes it would,” Sansa finally said.

It was a step in the right direction, if nothing else.

“Starting on Ellaria’s right,” he said, calling her attention to the man who sat there. “That is Lord Harmen Uller of Hellholt, Ellaria’s own father, and his brother Ser Ulwyck Uller is next to him. To their right is Ser Ryon Allyrion, the heir to Godsgrace, and his son, whom you have met, Ser Daemon Sand. Lady Larra Blackmont is next with her children, Jynessa and Perros. Myria Jordayne is heir to the Tor. Lastly, to your left is Ser Arron Qorgyle, second son to Lord Quentyn Qorgyle of Sandstone.”

Sansa did not look overwhelmed in the slightest, nodding along with each name.

“Can you remember them all?” Oberyn asked teasingly.

She turned her head to meet his gaze, worrying at her lower lip for just a moment before decision settled in her eyes.

“Our maester at Winterfell, Maester Luwin, always praised my ability to recall houses throughout Westeros as well as their banners and words,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice.

“Even as far south as Dorne?” he asked.

Sansa nodded, a smile tugging at her lips.

“My brother Bran would always challenge me. He knew many of them as well. We would test one another,” she said just before sadness took over the burgeoning light in her eyes.

Her gaze lowered to her plate for just a moment before lifting to meet his again.

“Does it still pain you? To think of your sister?” Sansa asked quietly where only he could hear, taking him by surprise with the sudden boldness of her question.

Oberyn considered her question for a moment in which shame filled her eyes.

“I apologize, my lord. I should not have asked that of you,” she said, shaking her head lightly.

“You may ask anything of me,” he said, not wanting her to censor herself on his behalf. “The answer is difficult. The wound of Elia’s death is no longer fresh. It took quite a few years before I was willing to name one of my daughters in honor of her because her name on my lips would tear it all open again. I still feel the ache of her loss but I can recall my many fond memories of her with happiness now, rather than with the anguish of before.”

Sansa gave him a grateful look, nodding her head as he finished speaking. He imagined that she understood quite well, perhaps more than anyone else in the world.

“Ellaria said that you wanted to speak with me,” she said, her voice still quiet.

Oberyn was relieved that she seemed open to such a conversation but it was not the right time for it. He trusted every man and woman at the table with his life but he felt as though Sansa would be more candid with her thoughts with less people around them, much like she had been outside of the city that morning.

“After we eat, if you consent to a stroll through the gardens with the two of us,” he said, trusting that she would understand that he meant Ellaria to come as well.

“I consent,” Sansa said with a nod and a pleasant smile before returning her attention to her meal.

Oberyn did the same, listening in as Ellaria engaged her in conversation and named all the dishes that Sansa felt curious enough to taste. Once they all cleared their plates, the servants brought forth the desserts, including a platter of lemoncakes that brought delight to Sansa’s striking eyes.

“I did not forget your first truth,” Oberyn said, picking one up himself to place on her plate.

“They are perfect,” she breathed, rewarding him with as genuine a smile as he’d ever seen from her. “Thank you Prince Oberyn.”

His name on her lips was a sweet as any song. He did not want to press his luck by requesting that she leave off the title. That could be saved for another time.

“Eat your fill, Lady Stark,” he encouraged her.

“I would not hoard them from the others,” she said, though she was already picking up the one that he’d given her.

“They were made for you alone. Eat as many as your heart desires.”

*****

With a belly full of food and wine, Sansa felt almost drowsy until Oberyn announced the cheerful Dornish nobles that they were going to take a turn about the moonlit gardens. Her nervous alertness returned and she allowed him to help her from her chair, standing to the side as he did the same for Ellaria. Once they bid goodbye to the lords and ladies, she found herself walking between the two with her hands twisted in her gown. Sansa kept waiting for one of them to speak but they did not, which only caused her to become more and more tense. Then Ellaria touched her arm as they neared an isolated section of the gardens, pulling her to sit upon a stone bench. She waited for Oberyn to take the space on the other side of her but instead he knelt on one knee in front of them, taking Ellaria’s hand in his while his gaze went to Sansa.

“It was never my intention to force your trust in me,” he said, looking at her earnestly. “I wish that we had more time so that you may come to know me better but I fear that we do not. Unfortunately, a decision must be made. All that I can do is assure you that my intentions are very simple. I only want to offer you an escape. If you choose to put your faith in me, I promise that you will be under no obligation to do anything that dishonors you. I mean it truly when I say that all that I ask for is your trust. The protection of Dorne does not come with expectations of reciprocation. My offer is a gift, not a trade. I would give you the freedom to choose for yourself. Nothing more and nothing less.”

Sansa stared at him, trying in vain to wrap her mind around his words. She did not know what to say. It was far more than she deserved but even putting that into words seemed difficult. When he lifted his hand and held it out to her just like he had to Ellaria, she stared at it with wide eyes as her heart pounded in her chest.

“Will you, Lady Stark, become my wife and put yourself under my protection?” Oberyn asked.

She swallowed hard before glancing over at Ellaria, who gave her a nod at the unspoken question that passed between them. She stood with the man who knelt before them in all things, that much was obvious. There was no reason for Sansa to think that they did not stand together in this as well. To have one would be to have the other, yet that prospect did not seem quite so intimidating now that Sansa had met the woman that Oberyn loved. 

Returning her gaze to the man who offered her the one thing that she wanted more than anything, her freedom, she hesitantly slipped her hand into his. The roughness of his palm and the calluses from years of training with dangerous weapons did not frighten her as much as she expected. His touch was warm and soothing, somehow. It helped her to relax before she finally opened her mouth to speak.

“Sansa,” she said softly once his fingers gently laced with hers. “I would like for you to call me Sansa, if you wish.”

Lifting her eyes to meet his gaze, she saw a wary hope in their dark, glittering depths.

“I accept your offer,” Sansa continued, nodding at him. “If the gods will it, I will wed you.”

Oberyn lifted her hand, pressing a firm kiss to the back of it.

“On my honor, I will never give you reason to regret this decision,” he vowed to her.

It was impossible not to believe him in that moment. There was a soaring lightness unfurling in her chest as Ellaria pressed a kiss upon her cheek and Oberyn laid another upon her knuckles. Sansa closed her eyes and wondered if this was what it felt like to take charge of one’s life for the first time in years. If so, she could very well grow addicted to the feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think about it all!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading and commenting once again! You are all absolutely amazing!

Over the next several days, Sansa’s spent most of her time with the visitors from Dorne. Whether she was attending court with Myria Jordayne and Arron Qorgyle or learning the game of cyvasse with Ellaria and her father, Sansa was hardly ever alone. Somehow she knew that it was Oberyn’s doing, though she did not yet know why nor did she wish to question it. She was slow to trust them but found their company preferable to any other nobleman or woman. 

Though she found more comfort with Oberyn and Ellaria, she could not deny that the others put her at ease, even enough to accept Jynessa Blackmont as her bedfellow. That particular night, she leaned against her headboard in a night shift with the furs pulled over her legs and a cup of mulled wine in her hands while Jynessa Blackmont provided most of the conversation.

“Were you fostered as a child?” she asked.

Sansa shook her head, taking a sip of the wine that warmed her from the inside and calmed her nerves. Jynessa was kind but she was still a stranger and it took a lot of purposeful breathing for Sansa not to panic at being so vulnerable with her, both physically and emotionally. There was a year between them, with Sansa being the younger, yet it sometimes felt quite the opposite. Jynessa was a naturally curious person with her own thoughts and experiences. It was only right that she desired to know Sansa and no fault of hers that Sansa had to push away much of her own discomfort to let her do so.

“None of us fostered anywhere,” Sansa said, tracing her finger along the rim of her cup. “I think that my father wanted to raise us all together. He fostered at the Vale of Arryn and I believe that it cultivated a distance between him and his siblings.”

She tried not to show the ache that formed in her chest as she spoke of her father, her eyes distant and her voice quiet. Yet Jynessa seemed to sense it anyway, reaching out to brush a comforting hand over Sansa’s shoulder. She did not say anything and a large part of Sansa was grateful for it.

“My brother and I both fostered at the Water Gardens,” Jynessa said, thankfully changing the topic as she sat back against the headboard next to Sansa. “It is common to do so in Dorne. The palace is constantly filled with laughter and celebration. I think that Prince Doran much prefers it that way. He gathers as many children as he can, across all regions and stations, to play and learn together. Bastards and trueborn alike are raised in an equal manner. It is a valuable lesson to us all.”

“That sounds lovely,” Sansa said, imagining a place so full of joy and innocence.

“Prince Oberyn will surely take you there,” Jynessa said confidently.

Her eyes snapped up and she stared with surprise, unaware that anyone besides her, Oberyn, and Ellaria knew that there was even a possibility of Sansa coming to Dorne.

“Ellaria told my mother and myself alone,” Jynessa said before letting out a small laugh. “I suspect that she would whisk you away from this place even if he did not plan to. She is rather taken with you.”

A flush rose on Sansa’s cheeks as she recalled that Prince Oberyn was not the only one with a taste for both men  _ and _ women. Jynessa looked amused at her reaction, laughing once more.

“You will grow used to it,” she said, reaching out to stroke a lock of Sansa’s hair. “We do not feel shame when it comes to love, no matter what form it may come in.”

“It is not shame,” Sansa said, though her blush contradicted her words. “I just do not understand it.”

Jynessa did not look surprised in the least, setting her cup aside to lay on her stomach atop the furs.

“Let me guess, your septa told you that when the time comes for your bedding, your duty is to lie back and let your husband take his rights,” she said, propping herself upon her elbows.

When she did not contradict her, Jynessa let out a sigh and shook her head.

“I will never understand why anyone would take advice from those women. They know nothing about any of it.”

“And you do?” Sansa asked, her eyes widening.

A mischievous light sparked in Jynessa’s eyes at the question.

“In Dorne, it matters very little if a woman bleeds on her wedding night,” she said plainly.

“And the men do not care?”

Jynessa’s answering smile told her everything that she needed to know yet Sansa listened to her next words with open ears and wide eyes.

“Why should a man be allowed to begrudge his wife the same pleasure that he has sought many times before?”

Sansa did not know the answer. That was just how it had always been taught to her. Jynessa looked amused at her shocked expression.

“My lady mother would have shrieked with anger if she knew I am speaking of such things,” Sansa admitted before taking another, long drink of wine.

“Or perhaps she would be grateful that you are going to a place where the worst you may suffer is a burn on your pale Northern skin from the unforgiving Dornish sun,” Jynessa said, a small smile upon her face. “But worry not. I am certain that our prince will have many salves on hand for you.”

Sansa felt her cheeks grow warm once more.

“Did he ask you to treat me well?” she asked, earning a nonplussed look from Jynessa. “It will not bother me if he did. I am only curious.”

“It was my own idea to befriend you. My mother and I brought the notion to Prince Oberyn and it was he who decided that I should… properly prepare you,” Jynessa said.

“Properly prepare me?” Sansa asked, her brow furrowing as she straightened up. “For what?”

“To be a Dornish princess,” she said, pushing herself up to sit as well. “And to be the wife of a Dornishman among other Dornishmen and women, with all that it implies.”

Realization dawned on her.

“So your talk of love and passion and shame… it was…”

“An effort to ensure that you know what to expect,” Jynessa finished for her.

Sansa was not sure whether to feel mortified or grateful. Surely Oberyn had the best intentions but she now wondered if the idea of her being inexperienced was unattractive to a man who seemed to be the physical embodiment of passion.

“He told you to do this because…”

“Because he assumed, rightly in my mind, that you would rather discuss all of this with someone like me than with him.”

Sansa’s eyes grew round and she quickly realized that she quite agreed with that. It was unimaginable to think of speaking with the prince about any of it, much less before they even wed. Jynessa laughed once more at her stricken look, laying a gentle hand upon Sansa’s knee as she did so.

“He is not the type of man to entice a maid into marriage without ensuring that she possesses the knowledge to make her own choices,” she said reassuringly. “If there is anything you wish to ask, I will answer. As will Ellaria or my mother.”

Sansa cast her eyes down, remembering the question that Septa Mordane never truly answered. She spoke around it, telling her that a woman’s true joy came from providing her husband with children. But Sansa could not bear to go into the first night of her marriage without knowing.

“Is it going to -- I only mean to ask -- will it…” Sansa hesitated, glancing up from her hands at Jynessa, who waited patiently for her to continue. “Will it hurt?”

She could not help but think of Joffrey’s taunts and the eager anticipation on his face when he used to speak of their wedding night. It caused her to dread the inevitable pain, whether it was with him or another man, knowing that the idea of her suffering often brought out such sadistic glee in the king. Jynessa looked unbothered by the question, yet somehow wise to the fear that drove Sansa to ask.

“Only if the man does not know what he’s doing,” she said in a low voice, as if imparting a secret. “You have nothing to fear.”

Sansa nodded, though Jynessa’s reassurance couldn’t quite take away the undercurrent of fear that she experienced when she imagined her bedding.

“Will you tell me more about the Water Gardens?” she asked, nearly desperate to think about something else.

With a smile, Jynessa nodded and began describing the palace and memories of her childhood there.

*****

“I know what you have done.”

The brave words were a risk. Sansa feared that her boldness may not be well received. He’d encouraged it thus far but there may well be a line that she hadn’t found yet. To her relief, Oberyn glanced over at her, a curious and amused look on his face.

“And what is it that I’m guilty of?” he asked as they walked out of the Great Hall with her hand laid gently in the crook of his elbow.

Joffrey spent only half the usual time hearing petitions before the court. He’d all but dismissed himself from ruling entirely, leaving many decisions up to his grandfather and the small council so that he could focus on planning his wedding without concerning himself with the banalities of being king. It was better for her, since she did not have to spend so much time in his presence, fearing that he would take notice of her.

“Nothing too horrid,” Sansa assured him, a small smile upon her lips. “I may even thank you for it. Your friends are very kind and I think that I owe their attentions to you.”

“You give me far too much credit. It took very little convincing on my part. They were all very curious about you and I daresay that you’ve entranced them all nearly as much as myself.”

Sansa’s cheeks grew warm and she ducked her head, her smile widening as they made their way down the steps to the courtyard. Before they could go far, a voice called out to Oberyn and caused a chill to run down the length of her spine. Her sudden tension did not escape his notice and Oberyn glanced at her briefly before turning them both to face Cersei, who approached them with a suspicious look in the depths of her emerald eyes, and four Lannister guards that accompanied her.

“Your Grace,” Oberyn said.

It was impossible not to notice that in place of the low, exaggerated bow that he gave to Sansa every time she entered his presence, he simply lowered his head to Cersei before looking up at her once more. She gave the queen a fully curtsy, not nearly as brave as the man next to her. Oberyn did not release her as she did so, keeping her close to his side. The queen did not even spare Sansa a glance. It seemed that she intended to ignore her altogether and Sansa was content to let it be so.

“A beautiful day,” Cersei said in that soft way of hers.

To a person who did not know her, it would sound as though she was simply exchanging pleasantries. But Sansa knew better than to trust that it was that simple.

“Indeed,” Oberyn said, peering up at the cloudless sky. “I was just going to suggest that Lady Stark join my paramour and I for a midday meal in the gardens.”

Cersei still did not look at Sansa, though she did allow Oberyn a smile that did not touch her eyes.

“How quaint.”

Joffrey was like his mother in many ways but he lacked the particular ability to make mild words sound like an insult. He did not bother to be subtle in his slights. Yet Cersei was not nearly as clever as she might have thought because it was fairly obvious to both Oberyn and Sansa exactly what she thought of the idea. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Sansa was invited or perhaps that Ellaria was involved. But Oberyn did not so much as flinch, continuing the conversation smoothly.

“I would invite you along as well but I imagine that you have your hands full planning the king’s upcoming wedding. I hear that it will be quite the event.”

Cersei’s mouth ticked every so slightly into a smile as she gave him a shallow nod, clearly not missing the fact that Oberyn hadn’t really given her an invitation at all.

“I am dining with my father,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her. “Something that I hear you are doing in the morning.”

Sansa forced a neutral look onto her face, knowing that Cersei would see any miniscule change in expression. She knew exactly what the purpose of Oberyn’s meeting with Tywin would be but Sansa had no intention of revealing any detail to the queen, especially not by mistake.

“We have much to discuss,” he said simply.

“Yes I imagine you do,” Cersei said, her eyes finally moving to Sansa. “How kind of you to take an interest in our little dove.”

_ Hostage _ , Sansa said to herself while keeping her lips sealed shut.  _ I am your hostage. If my pretty words don’t fool anyone, neither do yours. _

“It is a shame that I did not do so sooner,” Oberyn said, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Her lovely company has taken much of the sting out of being away from our home. If I knew before that the Lannisters were hiding such a gem in the Red Keep, I might have come to King’s Landing earlier.”

It was a lie but Sansa did not feel offended by it. She would not begrudge Oberyn or a single member of his family wanting to remain far away from King’s Landing after what happened to Princess Elia. A quick glance at Cersei confirmed that her pleasant expression was getting less so with each passing moment.

“I will leave you to your plans,” she said, already stepping away from them.

“I wish you a pleasant day,” Oberyn said, bowing his head to her once more.

“Your Grace,” Sansa said, speaking for the first time as she sank into a slightly shallower curtsy than before.

It felt thrilling, though she knew it was hardly a rebellious act. She did not allow herself to breathe normally again until Cersei disappeared into the throng of courtiers. As Oberyn turned her in the direction of the gardens, Sansa glanced over at him and hesitated for a moment before speaking.

“She will try to stop it,” Sansa said, her eyes falling to the ground as they walked. “She claimed me as a hostage for the crown, not Joffrey. She will not be happy to see me given to another house, especially not one so powerful as yours. She would rather see me the wife of the kennel master or perhaps never married at all. It is not only Joffrey who enjoys my suffering.”

Oberyn reached up, squeezing her hand lightly where it still lay upon his arm.

“I am not afraid of Cersei Lannister,” he said with every bit of confidence in his voice. “She imagines herself Tywin Lannister reborn but she is not so clever as she thinks. She will have no bearing on her father’s decision, even now as she runs to warn him that I am planning something.”

“You do not think that she will try to intervene?” Sansa asked.

“I think that it does not matter what she does. The seed has already been planted.”

She did not know what that meant but there was a cunning, satisfied light in Oberyn’s eyes that she had not seen before. It seemed that the famed warrior did not just like winning when it came to steel and blood and not all of his games were as innocent as the one he played with her. Sansa knew that he decided to help her when he sensed her suffering, so similar to that of his sister, but she had to wonder if perhaps she was to be an advantage for him in his quest for justice. She decided to keep such suspicions to herself for now, knowing that she must think about it before asking him outright.

*****

The next morning, Sansa found herself in the godswood soon after breaking her fast. She knelt at the base of the great oak tree, her hands clenched tightly in her lap and her head bent down. The prayer did not come easily to her lips. It had become harder and harder to summon them to her lips after hearing of the deaths of her mother and brother. Sansa thought that all of her hope died with them but now she felt the slightest spark of it in her chest and knew that she would only find peace in the presence of the old gods.

The old prayers were foreign upon her lips but she struggled her way through them, speaking the last remnants of a language nearly forgotten by all but those few in the North. Sansa’s father taught what he knew to her and her siblings, as he’d been taught by his own father. It did not feel quite as effective as the prayers she spoke by the black pool in Winterfell, calling upon the gods of stream, forest, and stone for their favor, but Sansa still felt remnants of her home and her family in her heart as she prayed for the gods to look upon her with mercy and grant her their favor.

Mostly, though, she pleaded for a good outcome to Oberyn’s meeting with Tywin.

It may have been selfish, with all of the suffering that hung over Westeros like a dark cloud, but Sansa could not pray for the souls that had already been lost, not even those of her family. All that she could do was beg for alleviation. She could not bear to experience this tiny bit of hope only to have it wrenched from her. Sansa honestly did not know whether she would survive it after everything. Perhaps that made her stupid and selfish and everything else that Joffery and Cersei told her that she was but all that she knew was that she needed this to go her way or else the last part of her damage, anguished heart would truly shatter and she’d be lost as well.

It wasn’t until she heard footsteps approaching from behind and felt the ache in her knees that Sansa realized just how long she’d knelt there. The sun was no longer peeking out from the horizon but instead hovering above the walls of the keep. Only the shade of the trees prevented her from overheating in her heavy gown. Sansa turned her head and felt relieved at once to see a friendly face approaching her. Ellaria stood out in her burgundy silks, dimming the greens and browns of the godswood with her effortless radiance.

“There you are,” she said, a smile forming upon her face that quickly fell as she grew near. “What is wrong?”

Sansa realized that there were tears upon her cheeks and quickly swept them away, shaking her head as she pushed herself up to stand on stiff legs.

“Something ails you,” Ellaria said, cupping her face with both hands.

“I often pray with a heavy heart,” Sansa said, finding more comfort in Ellaria’s touch than she expected. “You mustn’t worry for me.”

The older woman didn’t look convinced but nor did she force Sansa to speak of it, giving her a nod before linking their arms.

“Oberyn should be finished with Lord Tywin soon enough. Shall we play a game of cyvasse as we wait?” Ellaria asked as they fell into step with one another.

“That sounds lovely.”

Sansa had not fully grasped the rules of the game but it was an enjoyable pastime, especially with such a good instructor guiding her way. Yet they did not get a chance to even pull out the board or the pieces once they reached Ellaria’s chambers. Oberyn’s voice reached them from far down the corridor as he boisterously called for servants to send invitations to his Dornish companions and to bring him wine and food and even lemoncakes despite the fact that he only just finished breaking his fast with Lord Tywin. Sansa exchanged a wide-eyed look with Ellaria just before he made his way into the room, startling her with the loud noise of the heavy door hitting the wall.

“Oberyn,” Ellaria chided him in the wake of her shriek.

He did not pay the admonishment any mind, looking at Sansa with a grin upon his face as she pressed a hand to her racing heart. There was only one reason for such satisfaction and joy to be emanating from his person but Sansa still hesitated to hope that it was true.

“It seems that Doran is not alone in his eloquence after all, my loves,” he said.

Sansa could barely make sense of his words as he began to stride towards her. She did not have time to fear his approach before he swept her into his arms. A startled laugh slipped out of her mouth as he twirled her around several times before setting her back upon her feet.

“Is it done?” Ellaria asked, approaching them.

“It seems that Lord Tywin is willing to concede to a few of Dorne’s demands,” Oberyn said, keeping an arm around Sansa’s waist as she looked up at him with wide eyes. “Despite his hesitation, I think that he is relieved that I requested a marriage instead of a fight. Little does he know that I will succeed at obtaining both.”

He winked at Sansa before pulling Ellaria in for a kiss. It was much harder to believe than Sansa thought. If it was true, it meant that he would fulfill his promises to her, each and every one of them. She would have protection. He would honor her far more than any other man who sought her hand and her claim. And he would take her out of King’s Landing. She would see the Water Gardens and Sunspear and, most of all, she would never be forced to look upon the Red Keep again. Tears gathered in her eyes as Oberyn and Ellaria turned their attention upon her once more.

“Please let this be true,” Sansa said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Oberyn lifted his hand, laying it over her cheek.

“Have I lied to you yet?” he asked gently.

She shook her head as a strangled sob rose in her throat, her hand lifting to clutch at the sleeve of his surcoat. Neither Oberyn nor Ellaria looked panicked, the former giving her waist a comforting squeeze as the latter stroked her hair.

“Did you not think that it would come to pass?” Oberyn said.

Sansa forced herself to breathe, shaking her head.

“It is one thing to hope for something to happen and quite another to know that it will,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. 

Her knees grew weak as Ellaria smiled at her words and Oberyn kissed her upon the temple. They both sank to the floor with her as her tears of both happiness and sorrow continued to flow, whispering reassurances that everything would change for her now. Sansa believed it. She believed them. Rather than shattering, as she feared she would do if this had gone differently, she felt the smallest hint of healing in her heart. It was a start and for now, that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear what you think about it all.
> 
> There will be more revealed about the agreement between Oberyn and Tywin soon.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love you all! Thank you so much!

Word spread through the castle quickly, from the cupbearer who served Oberyn and Tywin during their meeting to other servants to the nobles that they served and on and on. By the time Sansa stepped out of her chambers to attend court, every person that she passed stared openly. Some of their gazes were pitying and others were amused. The latter sort was almost the only sort she found in the Great Hall. it was easy to imagine what they were all thinking. Poor Sansa Stark. A family full of dead traitors, humiliated and dismissed by the king, and now claimed by the Red Viper.

She kept her head as high as she could, which she regretted as soon as she met the gray-green eyes of Lord Baelish. He approached her with an indecipherable expression upon his face. The smell of mint clung to him, as always, when he bowed to her before offering to escort her to the gallery, where she always stood. Sansa nodded her head once, falling into step with him, her hands hidden in the folds of her gown in the hopes that he would not offer his arm to her. As kind as he was, she could never shake the feeling that he wanted something from her and that he was endlessly amused by the fact that she did not know what it was.

“I have heard rumors of your betrothal,” he said as nobles of lower birth than Sansa stepped aside to allow her to pass, something they hadn’t done since her father was still alive and Hand of the King.

“Prince Oberyn honors me,” Sansa said, knowing that the words would be confirmation enough for him.

“Many young ladies across the realm dream of becoming a princess. You must be thrilled.”

Sansa nearly admitted to him that it was not for the title of princess that she accepted Oberyn’s betrothal, but for a chance at freedom from the cruelty of Joffrey and his mother. She kept the words to herself, remembering how many times she’d seen him whispering in Cersei’s ear. He always told her how no one in King’s Landing could be trusted. Sansa wondered if he meant himself as well.

“I do admit that it came as quite a surprise to me,” he continued on, clearly not needing her response. “Last I heard, Lord Tywin was considering a cousin or nephew. It makes me wonder what concessions your future husband allowed in exchange for your hand.”

Though her step did not falter and her face did not change, Sansa’s breath caught in her throat just for a moment. Oberyn boasted that Tywin bowed to his demands but made no mention of what compromises he made in return. She hadn’t thought of it until now and cursed herself for not wondering before. Sansa did not dare reveal her thoughts to Lord Baelish.

“Concessions are necessary when coming to an agreement such as this,” she said quietly.

“Indeed.”

As she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw the slightest sour expression crossing Lord Baelish’s face. She had no time to question it, even silently, for a bright spot of color amidst the muted hues that Joffrey’s court favored took her attention away. Jynessa approached with a delighted look upon her face, speaking as soon as she was within earshot.

“I heard the news as I broke my fast with my mother,” she said, taking both of Sansa’s hands in her own.

Jynessa placed a kiss upon both of Sansa’s cheeks before noticing Baelish standing next to her and sinking into as shallow a curtsy as she could manage.

“My lord,” she said before straightening up.

There was a questioning look upon her face and he quickly took the opportunity to introduce himself.

“Petyr Baelish, Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord of Harrenhal,” he said, bowing to her while leaving out the moniker that was more well known to the world.

“Lady Jynessa Blackmont,” she said, recognition flickering through her eyes.

Lord Baelish’s reputation as Master of Coin must have reached even Dorne. Sansa always heard whispers of how he could make money appear from thin air.

“I have heard that most men shy away from the title of Lord of Harrenhal,” Jynessa said, tilting her head with confusion. “Is it not cursed?”

“That is the rumor,” Baelish said simply, the corner of his mouth ticking upwards in a smile that never reached his eyes.

“Lord Baelish was my mother’s childhood friend,” Sansa said, nodding his way.

She wisely left out the part of the story where he challenged Brandon Stark, her uncle, for her mother’s hand and suffered an unfortunate loss.

“Then you must be overjoyed to hear that her daughter has recently been betrothed to our prince,” Jynessa said brightly.

Overjoyed did not seem to accurately describe how Lord Baelish felt about it, judging by the tight expression on his face.

“It’s a shame that I will not be here to witness it,” he said, his eyes moving back to Sansa. “I have been given leave by Lord Tywin to travel to the Vale and marry your mother’s sister.”

Sansa blinked at him with surprise. It did not occur to her until now that Lord Baelish might have been close with her aunt as well, even though he fostered at Riverrun and certainly would have known her quite well.

“Please give Aunt Lysa my love,” Sansa said, knowing that it was expected of her even though she’d never actually met the woman. “I wish you good fortune on your journey and in your marriage.”

Baelish wished her the same in return, though there was a strange amusement in his voice that gave her a feeling of unease. Jynessa did not seem to hear it, whisking her away with an arm linked with hers as soon as he disappeared into the crowd. Sansa did not dwell much on his odd farewell but rather on what he’d said before about concessions. What if Oberyn had to give Tywin something or someone valuable to Dorne? He had no legitimate children of his own but his brother did. She was aware that Myrcella was betrothed to Prince Trystane but knew little of the other two, only that the eldest was the heir to Prince Doran’s seat as well as unmarried.

Such thoughts hung over her like a dark cloud and she did not hear much of the petitions at all. Jynessa may have spoken to her but Sansa could not bring herself to answer, wringing her hands and worrying at her bottom lip until she drifted out of the Great Hall. Any light mood she may have awoken with was gone, replaced by anxiety at what exactly was took place between Prince Oberyn and Lord Tywin. She excused herself to her chambers and climbed the steps slowly, feeling as though her limbs were weighed down. When she pushed through her door, her blood ran cold at the sight of the queen sitting on the edge of her bed with a trunk that Sansa had not seen before at her feet.

“There she is,” Cersei said with an edge to her voice. “The blushing bride.”

Sansa certainly was not blushing at the moment. She imagined that she was rather pale. Cersei stood gracefully, crossing to the table near the window where a flagon of wine and two cups sat.

“Dornish wine,” she said, pouring them both a healthy amount. “An appropriate choice to toast your betrothal, is it not?”

There was little chance that the queen came to simply offer her congratulations. Frozen in place until now, Sansa only managed to move when Cersei gestured for her to sit at the table.

“The royal seamstress finished only part of the wardrobe that I commissioned for you. I stopped her from doing the rest since the crown will be relieved of your burden soon enough. Certainly your prince can pay for more to be done if need be,” Cersei said, her green eyes burning like wildfire as she gazed at Sansa over her cup.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said quietly.

Cersei looked annoyed at her response.

“Drink,” she instructed much like she had the night of Stannis’ attack.

Sansa was all too happy to do so if only because it gave her a reason to look away. She preferred Dornish wine when it was spiced and warmed but she drank of it nonetheless, even as her body shuddered at the heaviness of it in her belly.

“Your wedding will be a modest affair, of course,” Cersei said, setting her cup down. “The food stores need to be filled to capacity for Joffrey’s feast. I hope that will suit you.”

“It will suit me quite well,” Sansa said, treading as diplomatically as she could. “I am grateful for whatever the crown provides.”

“Of course you are.”

Cersei made it sound like an insult. Sansa could easily sense her anger and knew that it was due to her betrothal. Yet the queen did not seem to be intervening like she warned Oberyn that she might. It should have set her at ease but it only made Sansa feel more anxious. Cersei never seemed to give up on what she wanted without a fight and she definitely did not want Sansa to experience one degree of happiness. So why was she here toasting her betrothal and informing her of the plans for Sansa’s wedding?

“Do you know why Prince Oberyn came to King’s Landing, little dove?” Cersei asked, leaning back in her chair as she reached for her cup again.

_For justice and for revenge against your family._

“For the king’s wedding?” Sansa said innocently.

“Among other things, yes,” the queen said, taking a sip before she continued. “My father reached out to Dorne as soon as he took his place as Hand and offered the ruling prince a place on the small council. Doran sent his brother to sit in his place.”

Sansa did not speak right away. It made sense for Lord Tywin to extend such an offer. Dorne had been part of Westeros only in name ever since Robert’s Rebellion. If the Lannisters wanted to unite the Seven Kingdoms, they needed to bring Dorne into the fold. If the rumors of Prince Doran’s ailments were true, he’d have to send a proxy in his stead. Oberyn, a second son with nothing to inherit, would be a good choice for the position.

“The Greyjoys are still rebelling against the crown, there are more and more wildlings attacking the Wall every day, and a threat to my son’s rule rises in the east,” Cersei said, sounding more like she was thinking aloud than speaking to Sansa.

Daenerys Targaryen was that threat. Sansa had heard rumors of her dragons and her victories, whispers that spread through court but did not dare to be spoken within Joffrey’s hearing lest he take offense to them.

“The king will need his council to advise him on these many matters,” Cersei said, her eyes flickering back to Sansa. “His entire council.”

Sansa suddenly understood and fear clenched at her heart. She was certain that it showed in her eyes, for the queen looked rather satisfied. Yet she would not show it in her words as well.

“Prince Oberyn is wise and experienced,” Sansa said, lifting her chin and keeping the tremble from her voice. “I am certain that he will be a valuable advisor.”

“With his pretty little wife at his side,” Cersei said, reaching out to brush her fingers gently over her cheek. “And his paramour too, of course.”

Sansa recognized the bait when she heard it. She would not rise to it.

“Ellaria is very kind. I will cherish her company.”

That seemed to take Cersei by surprise and she was clearly not pleased about it, leaning away from Sansa as her hand fell from her cheek.

“Do you think that you will be cherished in return? That you will not be set aside when he tires of you?” she asked, standing from the chair. “You are a fool if you do.”

Cersei gave Sansa no chance to respond, sweeping from the room. Shakily rising to her feet, Sansa lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip of the wine, her eyes still trained on the door. The queen was angry, that much was clear. Perhaps it was as Oberyn said and she had no chance of stopping the wedding so instead she sought to sow discord between Sansa and her future husband, or Sansa and Ellaria. For the first time, she did not care much for Cersei’s words. Because it seemed that she was the foolish one, not Sansa.

But she could not help but fear the possibility that she may be trapped in King’s Landing for an indeterminate amount of time after the wedding if Oberyn did indeed take his brother’s place on the small council. There was only one thing that she could do to satisfy her worries both about the compromises he made for their betrothal and what would happen after they married. She needed to seek out her future husband.

*****

Sansa had never approached Oberyn’s chambers on her own before and therefore did not know what to do. Her anxiety was for naught as a servant informed her that he was sparring before she even knocked on the door. Yet she did not find him in the training yard, nor the middle or lower bailey. It was only when she found a kitchen servant who delivered refreshments upon the request of a Dornish squire that she set upon the right path to the largest terrace in the gardens. It was usually overtaken by the Tyrells but Sansa knew that they were visiting the Great Sept along with Joffrey, so that left it open for Oberyn and his company to claim.

Sounds of clashing steel, grunts of effort, and the occasional cheer drew her in until she found herself on the edge of the gathering. She expected to see the men training alone but Ellaria was seated beneath an awning with Larra, Jynessa, and Myria, laughing with a cup in one hand and a fan in the other. Sansa’s attention moved away from them and her gaze settled upon the two sparring men, who swapped swords for spears quite effortlessly as she watched. Oberyn wore a simple sand colored wool tunic with dark brown breeches, looking much different to her eyes without the magnificent colors that he favored.

His sparring partner was Daemon Sand. Their graceful, lethal dance was so quick and effortless that Sansa barely managed to keep from gaping, forcing her mouth remain closed though she could not tear her wide eyes away from the spectacle that they made. She knew from watching her brothers and the men of Winterfell spar in the training yard that they were merely practicing without any real intent to hurt one another but it was all too easy to see how they would fight in a duel or upon a battlefield. It was even easier to how her future husband earned the moniker by which the world knew him.

Oberyn was quick on his feet, darting and twisting this way and that while striking out with his spear. Though Ser Daemon was a fair fighter, even Sansa could tell that he would be outmatched if this were a true challenge, even with the advantage of his youth. A gasp slipped from her lips as another man, Ser Arron Qorgyle, stepped into the fray without warning. Yet Oberyn did not miss it, readjusting his stance to fight both men. Sansa tried her best to keep up with the steps as the minutes ticked by and they showed no sign of ceasing. It ended rather abruptly with Ser Arron flat on his back and Ser Daemon frozen in place with the tip of Oberyn’s spear poised at his throat. Ellaria and the others shouted cheery responses as they clapped.

Rather than show any upset at being beaten, Ser Daemon simply grinned as he stepped back and lifted his hands in a sign of surrender, his eyes flitting over Oberyn’s shoulder to rest upon her. He said something quietly, causing Oberyn to turn as he lowered his spear. Sansa was keenly aware of the hot flush that began in her cheeks and slowly made its way down her chest. She wished for Ellaria’s fan if only to hide herself behind it. She should not be seen in such a state, though she could blame it on the heat of the midday sun if need be. Admiring one’s betrothed from afar was one thing. Being caught in the midst of it was quite another. Oberyn handed his spear off to a squire, taking a skin of water to drink from while he approached her. She gathered her dignity as much as she could, curtsying to him as he neared.

“My prince,” she said softly.

His hand reached out towards her as soon as she straightened and Sansa allowed him to take her own, watching as he lifted it to his lips and brushed a soft kiss over her knuckles.

“My lady,” he said, his breath washing over her skin.

More warmth spread through her body accompanied by goosebumps on her arms. There was a sheen of sweat across his brow and drops of it slid beneath the slashed collar of his tunic. She managed to keep her eyes from following their path, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

“Are you troubled?” Oberyn asked, stepping closer to her out of concern.

Sansa started to shake her head before rethinking it, remembering that she’d agreed to speak only the truth with him. It was difficult sometimes, when she was so used to putting an empty smile on her face and pretending like nothing was amiss.

“The queen visited me.”

Oberyn immediately looked at her with understanding, keeping her hand in his as he led her away from the terrace to a shaded stone bench where he sat with her, apart from all the others.

“Tell me.”

It sounded more like a request than a command, as if Sansa could have refused if she wished. She did not wish to do so, and so opened her mouth to speak after taking a moment to gather her thoughts.

“She is angry,” Sansa said, her eyes falling to the ground where her slippered toes brushed the cobblestones. “But she did not show it much. She told me that the wedding will be a small affair and hinted that the crown no longer bore monetary responsibility for me.”

She paused, pressing her lips together. Oberyn squeezed her hand lightly, a gesture meant to be comforting as well as an invitation for her to continue speaking.

“She mentioned that you are expected to advise the king on your brother’s behalf.”

A brief few moments of silence passed before Oberyn reached out with his free hand and tilted her chin up so that she would meet his eyes.

“You have nothing to fear,” he said.

Sansa swallowed hard and forced herself to keep her eyes upon him.

“But I do,” she said, her voice wavering the slightest bit.

“Then I would reassure you, if you allow me.”

She had seen the slightest hint of Oberyn’s anger at the banquet when Joffrey mentioned the Mountain and did not wish to provoke it again. Pulling her hand from his, she sought to settle the overwrought feeling building in her chest. Simply clasping her hands did not help so she pushed to her feet, sinking her teeth into her lower lip as she turned her back to him. Somehow it felt easier to talk to him this way, as if she was confessing to the air and not to the man behind her.

“The king told me…” she hesitated, her heart beating a quick, heavy rhythm in her chest. “After he set me aside and became betrothed to Lady Margaery, he said that it would change nothing. That no matter who he married or who I married, he could still have me whenever he wants. That no man would dare to refuse his king.”

There was only silence behind her for a long few moments until she heard the telltale rustle of him standing. Oberyn did not force her to turn, instead moving around to stand in front of her. His hand lifted and his warm palm settled over her cheek before he spoke. Sansa lifted her eyes hesitantly, swallowing audibly at the sight of the rage brewing in his own black stare.

“He would not get within ten paces of your chamber,” he vowed, his voice low and filled with danger. “King or not.”

A strange sensation spread through her at the merciless sincerity in his voice.

“But if distance will assuage your fears better than I, your journey to Dorne can be easily arranged. My companions will deliver you safely to Sunspear or the Water Gardens and my brother will see to your protection from there.”

“I will be your wife,” Sansa said, her eyes wide at what he was implying. “It will be expected of me to-”

“Not one man will have a thing to say about it if I choose to send my wife to Dorne,” Oberyn said with certainty.

She hesitated to speak her mind, feeling rather dejected at his words instead of reassured. For all her talk with Jynessa about bedding a man, especially a Dornishman, Sansa did not stop to think that perhaps he would not want her in his bed. He had Ellaria, after all, and would no doubt want to keep her in King’s Landing if he sent Sansa to Dorne. His promises to her would be fulfilled and he would not be burdened with a young, inexperienced wife. Though it was rather perplexing, since he’d sent Jynessa her way to school her on the details of what may or may not happen in a bedchamber between husband and wife. Sansa could not quite wrap her mind around any of it and Oberyn seemed to sense her confusion.

“It is not that I do not desire your company,” he said, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “But my desires are far less important than your comfort.”

Sansa lifted her hand and tentatively brushed her fingers over his knuckles. She could feel scars beneath her touch and briefly wondered just how many men Oberyn Martell had fought and survived. It was common knowledge that he’d spent time in Essos, most notably with a sellsword company. This hand that she touched had wielded the most dangerous of weapons and killed men. Yet she allowed his touch without flinching and she wasn’t entirely sure that she understood why. Pressing her hand more firmly over his for just a moment, she took a shaking breath and dared to lean her face into his touch.

“My comfort is not more important than your family,” she said, keeping her eyes on his as she let her hand drop.

Oberyn looked confused now, his fingers drifting down to her jawline.

“You said that Lord Tywin conceded to your requests but you never mentioned what he stipulated in return,” Sansa explained.

Understanding flitted across his face.

“I should have told you earlier but I did not wish to spoil your high spirits,” Oberyn said before tilting his head slightly. “You think that I’ve given something of Dorne in return for your hand?”

“I do not know what to think,” Sansa said honestly, knowing that he would appreciate it.

He let out a sigh, turning away from her only to lead her back to the bench. She sat at his invitation but he knelt before her much like he had the night that he proposed marriage with Ellaria at her side. Sansa briefly wished that the other woman was there if only because she seemed to be a calming presence for both of them.

“You are right. A compromise had to be made,” Oberyn said, taking both of her hands in his.

She steeled herself, ready to tell him that he should call off the betrothal before it was irreversible. Sansa did not intend to let Dorne, nor the prince that knelt before her, suffer for her sake.

“You may be aware that Roose Bolton has been named Warden of the North.”

Though she was confused at why he would mention it, Sansa nodded once.

“I assured Lord Tywin that neither my brother nor I intend to claim the North,” Oberyn said.

She simply stared, her mind going quiet at his words.

“The Boltons hold Winterfell but your claim will always counter their own. Tywin decreed that Roose Bolton will serve as castellans over the castle. If you have a son, the boy will be fostered at Casterly Rock until he reaches six and ten, whereupon he will be named Lord of Winterfell. If you do not, lordship of the castle will pass to either a legitimate Bolton heir or the Karstarks in the event of Lord Bolton’s death.”

Breathing became difficult as her chest grew tight. It wasn’t until he said her name quietly that she realized she was gripping his hands.

“Winterfell is in ruins,” she said, feeling numb. “The king told me.”

Oberyn nodded, watching her with a furrowed brow.

“You cannot do it,” Sansa told him, growing more panicked.

“Sansa,” he said, gently squeezing her hands.

“Joffrey cannot have our child. He will torture him just because he’s mine. You do not know his cruelty as I do,” Sansa said, tears burning at her eyes. “And even if that does not come to pass, the Lannisters will turn him against us. They will disparage my family in his hearing. He will be taught to hate me.”

Her words grew more and more panicked until Oberyn was sitting next to her with his hands holding hers firmly.

“It will not happen,” he said more forcefully than he’d ever spoken to her.

“But you agreed-”

“I have no intention of claiming the North, it is true,” Oberyn said, cutting her off once more. “The only person with any right to do so is you. If you wish to press your claim, all I will ask is that you accept my help for it will not be an easy feat.”

Sansa turned her head away from him, afraid that someone may overhear his words. There was no one within her sight but that did not mean that no one was listening.

“Look at me,” Oberyn said, waiting until she did so to speak again. “I promise you, here and now, that no Lannister will lay their eyes upon a child of ours.”

Sansa trembled at his words as she understood the gravity behind them.

“You do not just want to kill the Mountain,” she whispered.

“I believe that Gregor Clegane had his orders when he sacked King’s Landing.”

In that moment, she knew that his justice would not end with the death of the man who killed Elia. He wanted to end the man behind the crimes and perhaps even his family as well. If Oberyn had his way, the Lannisters would fall quicker than House Reyne of Castamere. Yet he could not do this on his own so Sansa could not help but wonder if Prince Doran was perhaps involved with the plans. Did his companions from Dorne know of his intentions? Had they been planning this since the deaths of Princess Elia and her children? Sansa could guess the answer to each of her questions so she did not ask them aloud. There was only one thing that she truly wanted to say to him.

“Thank you.”

She dropped her eyes to their hands, missing the surprise on his face as she curiously brushed her finger over the ring on his thumb.

“For what?” Oberyn asked, stroking his fingers gently through her hair.

Sansa dared to look up at him when she answered.

“Everything.”

He gazed at her with disbelief and the smallest smile forming on his lips just before he tucked her into his side and laid a kiss upon her head. Minutes passed in silence and Sansa found herself feeling somewhat at peace with her head against his shoulder and no one around.

“I wish to know how you suffered at the hands of the king,” Oberyn said.

Sansa tensed, her breath catching in her throat for the briefest of moments. Given the rage he felt at a mere threat that Joffrey laid upon her, she could not imagine how he would feel if he knew that such threats were not all that she suffered. Fortunately she did not have to say a word, for he continued speaking.

“Only when you are ready, if you are ever ready.”

She slowly relaxed, allowing the tension to ease from her shoulders.

“Not yet,” Sansa said quietly.

Not until she knew how to tell him. Not until she could be certain he wouldn’t endanger himself to right the wrongs which had already been done for her. She’d paid the unfair price for her brother’s victories. For Joffrey’s anger. Nothing could make that right. Sansa could live with what had been done to her, but she could not let him needlessly confront her past tormentors. Thankfully, Oberyn did not argue with her and though she expected that he would pull away as she denied him a truth for the first time, he simply held her closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it! Wedding chapter! I hope that you all like it.
> 
> As a quick aside, I do want to remind everyone, as if you need it, that I am not GRRM. I have a few twists and turns in mind but at the end of the day, this is a shippy fic and that's what it'll mostly focus on. There will be intrigue and plotting but not nearly as elaborate as in the source material because I neither have the mind nor the time to come up with twisting plotlines like that. I hope that doesn't bother anyone.

It began with a summons.

Sansa was whiling away an afternoon with Jynessa in her chamber, her stitching in her lap as they sat next to an open window. The breeze from the bay ruffled the curtains and cooled their skin as she found herself laughing at a story her new friend recounted of her mischief at the Water Gardens when she was a youth. When the knock came at the door, Sansa thought nothing of it as she set aside her needle and thread before crossing the room to answer it herself. Her heart leapt to her throat at the sight of Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard.

“King Joffrey summons you to the Great Hall,” he said, stepping back as if expecting her to follow there and then.

Sansa’s good humor faded as fear turned her stomach to lead. She heard Jynessa moving behind her and prayed that the other young woman would not speak out. She knew what knights such as Ser Boros could do to young women because he had done it to her. Sansa would take a thousand blows to protect Jynessa from a single one.

“Shall I accompany you? I wish to stretch my legs,” her friend offered, sensing Sansa’s sudden stress.

“The king demands her presence alone,” Ser Boros said.

Sansa looked over her shoulder to see Jynessa prepared to argue but shook her head, silencing her with the expression on her face.

“It’s quite alright,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips that likely did not touch her eyes. “If anyone asks, tell them where I’ve gone.”

She could not keep her voice from shaking, which blessedly served to let Jynessa know that her words had a deeper meaning. She nodded with understanding, her eyes darting to the knight and then back to Sansa. As she forced herself to move and stepped out into the corridor, Sansa knew that Jynessa would leave her chambers as soon as they were out of sight. She only prayed that her friend could move quickly because it was not a long walk to the Great Hall.

Once they stepped outside, the building in question loomed over her like a beast, threatening to swallow her whole. Sansa was justified in her hatred and fear of it. She could only hope that the mere fact that she was now betrothed to the Red Viper of Dorne would cause even the Kingsguard to hesitate in beating her. Or would they still stand behind their steadfast assertion that they were duty bound to obey their king, as Meryn Trant once told Tyrion Lannister.

The court was not present. Only Joffrey, who lounged upon his throne with a wicked glint in his eyes, and his guard who stood at the bottom of the steps that led to the iron chair. Sansa’s footsteps echoed through the room as her heartbeat thundered in her ears and her entire body trembled from head to toe. As she came to a stop and curtsied low to Joffrey, wondering if he would force her to kneel to him, she closed her eyes and prayed for mercy as she had so many times before. It never worked.

“I’ve heard your news,” Joffrey said as soon as she straightened up. “Finally betrothed again, are you?”

“Yes Your Grace,” Sansa said, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground before her.

“Mother is furious.”

Her eyes lifted as she heard the rustle of fabric and Sansa watched with bated breath as he stood and began making his way down the steps towards her. He had rarely done this, only when something enraged him so that he wanted to be closer to see the pain written across her face.

“She thinks that you’ve planned it all and tricked Prince Oberyn into having you but I told her that you’re far too stupid for that, aren’t you?”

Sansa swallowed hard, forcing herself not to close her eyes and take whatever punishment he had in mind.

“Yes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I cannot hear you,” Joffrey said, his taunting voice making her flinch at its nearness.

“I am stupid, Your Grace,” Sansa said louder, knowing that her best chance to escape this as unharmed as possible was to just play along with his vicious little game.

He snorted in laughter, circling her like a predator.

“I think that the prince has vile things in mind for you,” he said, his lip curling as he spoke. “I’ve heard of his predilections. He’ll inflict them upon you, I am sure. You’ll be laying with whores before the year is out.”

Sansa sank her teeth into her lower lip, fighting back the words that threatened to spring to her lips in defense of the prince. She did not believe Joffrey’s mocking words but she knew that speaking out against him would only make it worse in the end.

“What say you to that?” Joffrey asked, not content with her silence.

She released her lip and felt it throb as the metallic taste of blood reached her tongue and she realized that she’d broken skin with her teeth.

“I will be dutiful to my husband,” Sansa said in a trembling voice.

Joffrey’s face betrayed his cruel amusement.

“I’ve been told that he likes to share his lovers. Do you think he’ll share you?”

Sansa shook her head, trying in vain to keep the tears from her eyes as she licked the blood from her lip. Before Joffrey could say another word, surely to suggest once more that he would have Sansa after she was wedded, the doors to the Great Hall opened and everyone turned their heads once to see who dared to enter when the king demanded privacy. Sansa could have sagged to the floor in relief when she saw Prince Oberyn entering the room with a company of half a dozen Dornish guards, including Ser Daemon.

“Forgive me for my lateness, Your Grace,” Oberyn said, his face arranged in a mask of ignorance as he strode towards them.

“Lateness?” Joffrey said, clearly displeased at the interruption yet somewhat cowed by the mere presence of the prince.

“Yes,” he said, reaching Sansa’s side rather quickly. “I was told that you wish to offer congratulations for our betrothal. Surely that is something you wish to say to both of us. I will allow you to continue without further interruption. What is it you were saying before I entered?”

Sansa briefly relished seeing the king lost for words as his eyes darted to the Kingsguard who were all itching to put themselves between Joffrey and Oberyn.

“I already said it,” the king finally spoke, taking a step away from them both.

He covered it well, moving towards the Iron Throne, yet no one was fooled by it.

“Then I will not ask you to repeat it. I know there are many important things for you to attend to,” Oberyn said, the words containing the slightest hint of insult. “I am certain that Lady Stark will not mind relaying it all to me. She has an excellent memory, as I am sure you know.”

Sansa did not speak or even meet Joffrey’s eyes as he sat down. He did not get the chance to respond as Oberyn continued.

“We will leave you to your numerous duties, Your Grace, and wish you luck in all of them,” Oberyn said, bowing his head.

“You may go,” Joffrey said, but they were already halfway turned.

Oberyn did not even give her the chance to curtsy, leading her from the Great Hall as the Dornish guards marched just behind them.

“Ser Daemon,” he said once the door shut behind them and they began making their way down the steps.

“My lord,” the knight said, stepping forward to match their hurried steps.

“She is not to be left alone. I was foolish not to do so before but now I want a guard with her at all times. You or another man, I do not care, but he must be Dornish,” Oberyn said in a low voice that she barely heard. “With your consent of course, Sansa.”

She tried to answer but her throat grew tight and her mouth snapped closed again as she felt burning in her chest. A strangled gasp reached her ears and it took her a moment to realize that it came from her. Oberyn stopped as they reached the bottom of the steps, having heard it too, and turned to face her. He immediately realized that she was finding it difficult to breathe and reached up, cupping her cheek with one hand.

“Shhh,” he said, trying to soothe her. “You must breathe.”

She shook her head, feeling more distraught with each passing second as she could not stop thinking on what may have happened if Oberyn hadn’t interrupted Joffrey. Seizing her hand, the prince pressed it directly over his heart. She felt the gentle thud of it beneath her palm and due to the deep, slashed collar of his tunic, several of her fingers brushed over the warm skin of his chest.

“Breathe with me,” Oberyn instructed her, exaggerating his breathing.

Sansa struggled for a moment before pulling in a breath of air, keeping it trapped in her lungs longer than necessary before exhaling. It took a long time for her to match the pace of Oberyn’s breathing yet he remained patient and still as her mind began to clear and the tension in her chest ebbed away,

“You’ve been summoned in a similar manner before?” he asked in a low voice.

Sansa nodded and fury burned through his eyes before he focused on her again.

“Do you agree to be guarded by my men?” he asked.

She gritted her teeth as the visceral memory of Ser Boros’ mailed fists driving into her belly and Ser Meryn’s sword striking at her back and legs. Sansa somehow knew that the Dornishmen would not do such a thing even if their prince asked it of them and so nodded before realizing that Oberyn’s hand was still upon her cheek. His eyes darted to her lip that was still stained with blood and anger sparked in the glittering depths once more.

“Were you struck?” he demanded, his rage bleeding into his voice.

“No,” Sansa finally managed to choke out, pressing her hand more firmly against his chest to keep him from marching back up the steps as she imagined he was tempted to do. “I bit it.”

Oberyn let out a heavy sigh and drew her in, pressing a determined kiss to her forehead.

“This will never happen again,” he vowed, pulling away to stare into her eyes with determination so that she may believe him.

That was how she found herself with a constant Dornish guard. Once it spread about the keep that she was summoned to the Great Hall, Sansa caught people watching her for traces of injury and knew that they wondered if the king dared to beat her now that she was betrothed to Prince Oberyn Martell. As soon as word reached Lord Tywin of what happened, Joffrey did not summon her alone to his presence again.

*****

Sansa kept her eyes upon her dressing table as Shae prepared her room for the night. She was already changed into her night shift and her hair was braided into a thick rope over her shoulder. With her knees tucked against her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs, Sansa watched as the flickering light of her candles danced along the walls and caught on the gift that she’d found in her chambers shortly after breaking her fast with Jynessa and her mother. The scabbard hid the undoubtedly sharp blade from sight but the handle was quite the sight. The grip of the dagger was made of the same brown leather as the sheath but the pommel and the cross-guard were inlaid with magnificent fire opals and rubies.

It had been a day since the scene in the Great Hall and there were three days yet until the wedding. There was not a note left with the dagger but Sansa had seen it hanging from Oberyn’s belt before and knew that he likely intended for her to keep it as protection. Shae caught her looking and paused in the middle of closing a window, glancing from her to the dagger and back. There an indecision on her face, which was odd considering that she was one of the boldest people that Sansa knew.

“They’re dangerous,” Shae finally said.

Sansa looked to her just as she turned to latch the window.

“They want to help me,” she said with a frown.

“Maybe they do,” Shae said, gathering the day’s dress and shift in her arms. “But that doesn’t mean they won’t use you.”

Her words didn’t bother Sansa near as much as she thought that they would. It took only a moment of quiet thinking for her to respond.

“Before I came to King’s Landing, I was nothing but a girl who wanted to be married to a prince. I did not think much on my worth. My mother always told me that I was beautiful and my septa always complimented my stitching. Maester Luwin occasionally told me that I had a good memory and a mind for history but I did not care as much for that. I never even thought to  _ have _ a claim. I certainly did not want to be the key to the north. I only wanted to be a wife. A mother. Perhaps even a queen.”

Sansa paused, awaiting a scoff for her childish wants, but Shae didn’t say a word where she stood near the door staring back at her.

“All that I have wanted is to live for the day when I wake up without the knowledge that I have a choice again,” Sansa said, her eyes moving to the dagger again. “They gave me a choice.”

Silence answered her words once more and she heard the faint click of the door closing behind Shae as she left to deliver the clothes to be washed before retiring to her own chamber for the night. Once she crossed the room to slip the latch into place, Sansa turned to make her way back to her bed only to pause at her dressing table. She let several moments pass in silent contemplation before letting her fingers close around the dagger. Once she settled in her bed and extinguished all the candles but one, Sansa laid down upon her feather pillow and moved her hand beneath it, holding the grip of the dagger until she drifted to sleep.

*****

When the morning of the wedding came, Sansa woke with a nervous stomach. She was expected in the Queen’s Ballroom where she would dine with ladies of noble birth. She knew that sitting at the high table with Cersei and Margaery would be required but all that she wanted to do was sup with Jynessa and the other Dornish ladies. She was tempted to invite Ellaria, knowing that it would ruffle nearly everyone’s feathers, but the woman herself counseled Sansa against it between Oberyn’s loud barks of laughter. It was the first full smile that Sansa exchanged with him as he winked and clasped her shoulder, proudly claiming that she would make a fine Dornishwoman.

She walked into the ballroom with Ser Daemon at her back, refusing to let her walk alone even amongst noble ladies in all their finery. If she could not sit with the Dornish company or present Ellaria as her friend, she would certainly scandalize all present by declaring a Dornish bastard as her shield without saying a word. He stood behind the high table, keeping a distance between himself and the Lannister guards that accompanied Cersei everywhere she went. Sansa curtsied to the queen regent and accepted a kiss on the cheek from Margaery before taking her seat between them.

“Does your guard imagine there will be danger here?” Cersei asked, annoyance plain in her voice.

“Prince Oberyn insisted,” Sansa said innocently, lowering her head in a show of meekness. “You told me yourself that my husband would be my lord and I should look to him in all things. I took your lessons to heart, Your Grace.”

She saw the pinched look cross Cersei’s face out of the corner of her eye as she sipped from a cup of honeyed milk, fighting a smile. It was true that the older woman told her such things but that was only when she was to wed Joffrey and they expected her to be perfect and unresisting. She knew that Cersei looked on such women with absolute disgust. It felt almost thrilling to pull at the strings that angered her knowing that absolutely nothing could be done. For she would become Oberyn Nymeros Martell’s wife that day. The unease and even fear that everyone felt around him would now be to her advantage. Even if they pitied her or mocked her for marrying a man with such a reputation, who would do so to her face?

Who would dare anger the Viper?

“Do you have attendants to dress you?” Margaery asked pleasantly as she cut into her meat. “I would not mind sending a few of my cousins if you wish.”

“Lady Jynessa Blackmont will attend me,” Sansa said, equally polite.

She did not mention that Ellaria would be there as well, not wanting to hear a scoff or deriding comment from Cersei.

“I know very little of Prince Oberyn but he is a friend to my eldest brother,” Margaery said.

Sansa could not help but give her a look of uncertainty and confusion. Margaery looked at her with understanding, the smallest smile tugging at her lips.

“It was a tragedy that crippled my brother but their friendship was born from it. They write each other quite often,” she said, holding out her cup for more hippocras. “I am certain that he can be kind beneath his… passionate exterior. My brother wishes for me to reassure you.”

Sansa did not say anything, nodding her head with a nervous press to her lips. It was not all for the benefit of those around her. Though Jynessa had done her best to reassure her about it, and she heard some of what to expect from her mother, Cersei, and Margaery herself, the bedding still frightened her. Oberyn was a passionate man. He would not have eight bastards if the opposite were true.

“Thank you, my lady,” Sansa said, managing a smile in return. “It is very kind of you and your brother to offer me your reassurances.”

Margaery nodded, looking happy that she was able to offer help. The meal passed in a similar manner, with Cersei remaining silent and disinterested while Sansa and Margaery offered the occasional comment to one another. When everyone was finished, Cersei stood and dismissed them all before leaving herself without so much as a well wish in Sansa’s direction. She did not mind, not wanting to hear lies from the queen’s lips. There was no need for it when they both knew that she did not wish Sansa well. As she stood, Margaery took both of her hands and placed gentle kisses up on her cheeks.

“You will make a lovely bride,” she said with a gentle smile.

“And you, Lady Margaery,” Sansa said.

She endured the curtsies and flattering remarks as she descended from the high table with Ser Daemon on her heels. Each of the ladies who praised her now had sneered at her in the recent past. Did they really think that Sansa would forget it all? She felt relieved when she found her way to Jynessa, reaching out to eagerly take her arm.

“I seek an escape,” she said in a low whisper, knowing that offense would spread quickly if anyone heard her admit it.

“There is a door just there,” Jynessa said, turning them towards it.

Ser Daemon kept pace with them easily as they hurried off, excusing themselves to start preparing her for the wedding. Once the door closed behind them, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief and let her shoulders sag for just a moment.

“Unbearable?” Jynessa asked, smiling at her.

“I thought Cersei would stab Lady Margaery with her bread knife when she began talking about the wonders of HIghgarden,” Sansa said, lifting her skirts as they made their way up the stairs.

“It came close,” Ser Daemon said, sounding quite serious despite the humor in his eyes.

Sansa pressed a hand over her mouth for a moment so that no one would hear her laughter.

“Apparently the queen is not taking well to her betrothal to Lord Willas,” she said quietly.

“I wish I could see how she takes to Lady Olenna,” Jynessa snickered.

The thought of the two women dining together regularly had Sansa and Jynessa in stitches all the way back to her chamber while Ser Daemon could not fight back his own smile.

*****

As Sansa bathed in warm water, with oils and herbs turning it murky and filling the air with strong scents, she listened to Jynessa and Ellaria hum a Dornish tune together from the other side of the screen. She hadn’t sung in so long but wondered briefly if she should familiarize herself with a few Valyrian and perhaps even Rhoynish songs. She knew one about Nymeria but only in the common tongue. It was the only song that Arya would allow her to sing without scoffing because it was about the woman herself, not her marriage. In the distance, through her open window, she could hear the bells of Baelor’s Sept chiming.

“Are you quite finished?” Ellaria called.

Sansa pulled herself out of her thoughts and dipped her hair beneath the water once more before pushing to her feet and stepping out, tugging a sheet from where it was draped over the screen. Once she dried herself, she dressed in the finest silk smallclothes and a shift paneled with delicate myrish lace before stepping out to allow them to lace her into a gown of blue samite so pale that it was nearly silver. The satin lining was smooth and cool against her skin. It all came together with a cloak that she’d stitched herself, long ago when she thought to marry Joffrey.

She had the forethought to make it longer, assuming that she’d be taller by the time that she wore it. The white of the cloak was offset with the fierce silver direwolf emblazoned on the back. Her throat tightened and burned for just a moment at the knowledge that she would no longer be Sansa Stark at the end of this day. She pushed aside her sadness, knowing that she could be giving up her family name for a far worse one in return. Ellaria fastened it around her neck, brushing a kiss over her cheek once she finished as if she could sense Sansa’s turmoil.

They left her hair loose around her shoulders with only two silver filigree hairpins securing small sections just behind her temples to keep it from hanging in her face. Once Sansa stood before the tall looking glass in the corner of her bedchamber, she found it hard to breathe at the sight of her reflection. She turned this way and that, admiring how the sunlight coming through the window caught on the stitching in her skirt and made her hair glow like a living flame. There was color high in her cheeks and she could not help but admire herself for just a few moments.

“You look like a queen of winter,” Ellaria said with a smile upon her face as she brushed a hand over the velvet lining of the maiden cloak.

Sansa could not help but agree, reaching up to gently stroke one of her curls.

“I wish that my mother were here,” she said softly.

Ellaria’s face turned sad but not pitying, which relieved Sansa because she was tired of pity.

“I know that you do,” the other woman said, turning her so that they faced one another. “But she is here.”

Ellaria placed a hand over Sansa’s heart.

“As is the rest of your family.”

Sansa nodded, taking a deep breath to steady herself. To her utter surprise, Ellaria leaned in and brushed a gentle kiss over her lips. It was short yet it curiously set her heart to racing. She did not think to react in such a manner to a woman’s kiss but her lips tingled slightly as Ellaria pulled away and gave her a sly smile as if she knew exactly what she was doing.

“You can tell our prince that I stole a kiss from his bride,” she said, brushing the pad of her thumb over Sansa’s jaw.

The touch nearly elicited a shiver from her as her cheeks grew warm.

“Will he not be angry?” Sansa asked, her voice quiet as if they were discussing some damning plot.

“Only that he did not witness it,” Ellaria said confidently.

As she stepped away, Jynessa looked amused before stepping forward to dab perfume with a dash of lemon hidden amidst the herbs on her throat and wrists.

“There,” she said, stepping back with a nod. “You are the Maiden made flesh.”

Sansa quietly thanked her just as a knock came on the door from the guard, telling them that it was time. With a deep breath, she gave one last effort to calming her nerves. Sansa knew that Jynessa would be at her wedding feast but Ellaria would not. This was the last she would see of the older woman for the day and Sansa could not help but reach out to clutch at her hand for just a moment.

“You will end this day in high spirits,” Ellaria promised her, squeezing her hand gently. “Oberyn will make certain of it.”

Sansa nodded, choosing to trust in her words. She wanted to let Ellaria embrace her but knew that it would wrinkle the lovely gown and cloak. So she settled with squeezing her hand in return before making her way to the door with Jynessa close behind her. The guard trailed them as they made their way through the corridors, down the steps, and out of Maegor’s Holdfast. As she saw Joffrey hovering outside of the castle’s sept, her stomach twisted with fear. Jynessa had to excuse herself into the sept to take her place in the seats but Sansa’s guard remained with her much to her relief.

“I’m your father today,” Joffrey announced, a cruel look in his eyes.

“You’re not,” Sansa said, the words falling from her lips before she could help it.

“I am,” he said, his face darkening.

She pressed her lips closed, knowing better than to argue with him. Though her stomach lurched, her skin crawled, and her eyes burned, Sansa placed her hand lightly on his arm and allowed him to lead her into the sept and down the aisle. She focused on Prince Oberyn where he stood at the marriage altar with the septon. He was well groomed, as always, and watching her approach with a comforting expression on his face. Ser Arron Qorgyle attended him, with a cloak draped over his arms of magnificent orange silk emblazoned with the red Martell sun being pierced by a yellow spear. It would soon be placed around her shoulders. Sansa’s eyes moved to the statues of the Mother and Father that stood on either side of the altar, sending a quick prayer to them, and to her own mother and father, for strength. She could be brave, just like them. Once Joffrey delivered her hand into Oberyn’s, she met his gaze and saw the concern there, only then realizing that there were tears upon her cheeks. 

Sansa shook her head just slightly, hoping that he did not think that he was the cause of them. Later she would explain the revulsion that she felt at Joffrey acting as her father but for now, they had something far more important to devote their attention to. The prayers, singing, and vows passed quickly and before she knew it, Joffrey was stepping forward to unclasp the white and silver cloak from around her shoulders. Her breath hitched in her throat and Oberyn squeezed her hand lightly where he held it before turning to retrieve the cloak of his colors from Ser Arron. Once he draped heavy fabric over her shoulders and clasped it gently at the hollow of her throat, they faced one another with both of their hands clasped in the others.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband,” Sansa said softly, knowing that she must speak first.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife.”

Oberyn’s voice carried to the watching nobles far easier than hers just before he leaned forward and brushed her lips with the gentlest of kisses. Yet her skin still grew warm and her heart picked up pace much like it had when Ellaria kissed her.

“Here in the sight of gods and men,” the septon said, raising his crystal high in the air. “I do solemnly proclaim Oberyn of House Martell and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”

Sansa lifted her eyes and met Oberyn’s gaze, deaf to the clapping spectators as she wondered if he would kiss her again. He did not but quite curiously, she found that she would not mind if he did.

*****

The wedding feast was as modest as Cersei promised, with only forty or so guests. The food was adequate and they served Dornish wine, much to Oberyn’s approval. Sansa did not refuse a second and third cup, letting the drink warm her from the inside. Smiles came easily to her lips whenever someone came by their table to congratulate them. Oberyn kept their hands clasped atop the table as they ate, brushing his thumb over her knuckles every few minutes. He whispered things to her throughout the meal, mostly insignificant comments but every so often he told her a jest that had her muffling laughter behind her free hand.

It was only when the musicians began to play that he pulled her to her feet and gently removed the cloak from her shoulders. Once it was draped over the back of her chair, Oberyn led her out amidst applause and they began to dance. He was remarkably graceful, which came as no surprise since she’d seen him fighting with an equal amount of finesse. HIs eyes did not stray from her as they went through the steps and Sansa found that she could not tear hers away either. Only when dance called for a change was her gaze was ripped from his and she found herself partnered with Garlan Tyrell. Though he was handsome, she felt the loss of the comfort she found in Oberyn’s touch. The Tyrells were all incredibly kind to her but that did not mean that Sansa trusted a single one of them. Not when their lust for power reminded her of the Lannisters.

Ser Garlan made pleasant conversation with her until the dance called for another change and she wound up with Lord Merryweather, then Ser Kevan, Ser Arron, Lord Mace, Jalabhar Xho, and Lord Redwyne. It was just before she would make the switch to Joffrey that the music ended and she found herself swept away from the dancers by Oberyn, much to her relief. They stood with a group from Dorne rather than return to her table. Lord Harmen gave her no reason to fear him, though she was marrying his daughter’s lover, complimenting her beauty and Oberyn’s choice in bride. It seemed that perhaps he understood why this marriage had come to pass.

Once several minutes passed and the music ceased, Joffrey loudly called for the bedding. Sansa felt a jolt of panic that was quickly put to rest when Oberyn squeezed her hand lightly before stepping away to submit himself to the women that crowded close. Once Sansa’s gown was unlaced and tugged away, she was lifted onto the shoulders of Ser Arron and Ser Daemon, who carried her from the Small Hall as hands groped at her legs and tried to pull away her shift. Sansa felt crushing relief when she was deposited in Oberyn’s chambers, her long hair covering the scars at her back, as the men began wandering off with bawdy jeers aimed her way. Lord Harmen brought Oberyn’s cloak along with them and laid it about Sansa’s shoulders as she trembled in her smallclothes.

“Thank you,” she said, lifting her eyes to his.

There was no reason for this man to be kind to her. It should have been his own daughter being named Princess of Dorne but here she was. He nodded, squeezing her shoulder lightly before leaving her alone in the bedchamber. Sansa could hear the approaching women and clutched the cloak tight around her, retreating to the far end of the room next to the bed once the door opened again and Oberyn walked in of his own volition. Though his smallclothes were still on as well, Sansa could see that the ladies who brought him there had tried their best to remove them. There was a sheer strength in his bared muscles that she could not help but admire, if only briefly.

Once he spotted her standing at the other end of the room, he turned away with a small amount of amusement on his face and tugged on a pair of breeches that were lying across a chair.He did not face her again until he retrieved what looked like a deep blue dressing gown made of the finest velvet with a trim of silver lace and held it out. Sansa crossed towards him hesitantly, her bare feet making hardly any noise against the warm stone floor beneath her.

“Do you approve?” he asked, spreading it out so that she may see the details of it.

Sansa reached out with a still shaking hand, letting her fingertips brush the soft fabric.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“Do you wish to put it on?”

Sansa blinked at him with surprise, wondering why he did not instruct her to remove the cloak instead. Did he intend to bed her in this velvet dressing gown? With a slow nod, she took it from his hands and glanced around the room, her eyes falling upon a screen in the corner.

“Take your time,” Oberyn said, nodding at her.

She hoped that the smile she gave in return did not look like a grimace just before she stepped away. Once she was behind the screen, she noticed a shift folded upon a stool by the bath and knew somehow that it was for her. Sansa removed the cloak from around her shoulders, tugging the shift over her head before slipping the robe on, securing it at her waist with a satin belt. It was the perfect length with half a foot of fabric trailing the ground behind her. Sansa felt instant relief, wondering if perhaps Oberyn wanted to give her the means to cover herself for entirely unselfish reasons.

Stepping out from behind the screen, she was surprised to see him sitting against the headboard of his bed with two cups in his hands. He tilted his head towards the space beside him and Sansa nodded once, laying the cloak over the back of a chair before walking over slowly to join him upon the bed. It was only when she took the cup from him and felt its warmth beneath her palms that she knew it was mulled Dornish wine. The scent of spices reached her nose and she inhaled deeply, letting them fill her senses before taking a careful drink.

“This is lovely,” Sansa said softly, glancing over at Oberyn who was sipping at his own cup.

“I often drink it in the evenings,” he said with a nod of agreement.

She hesitated at his misunderstanding, wondering if she should correct him.

“The wine is quite good but I meant the dressing gown,” Sansa finally said, causing his head to turn and his eyes to meet hers. “It is far more than I deserve. Thank you.”

Oberyn shook his head, reaching up to free her hair from the two pins.

“It is exactly what you deserve,” he said.

Sansa did not quite know what to say to that so she took another drink, closing her eyes as it warmed her chest and belly. Oberyn was watching her with a strangely tender look upon his face, which warmed her as well, but there was a troubled look in the depths of her eyes.

“Why were you weeping before?” he asked, concern in his voice.

She lowered her cup, knowing that he deserved to know that it was not him that caused it.

“When I realized that the king would be the one to escort me through the sept, he said that he was acting as my father,” Sansa said, hoping that her explanation did not sound ridiculous to his ears. “It upset me.”

He sighed, shaking his head before drinking the rest of his wine. She heard him muttering about Joffrey as he stood to refill his cup but then he paused at the table, putting down the pitcher only to pick up a roll of white cloth that was familiar to Sansa. She did not realize that it would be there and assumed that Ellaria must have brought it since she and Jynessa were the only two who knew about it.

“Do you know what this is?” Oberyn asked.

Sansa nodded, sinking her teeth into her lower lip. With a confused frown, he crossed back over to the bed and sat in front of her.

“Does it displease you?” he said.

“No,” she told him, her voice tinged with nerves. “I fear that you will think it rather silly.”

“Silly?” Oberyn repeated as if the very idea of it was ludicrous. “Never.”

She hesitated before nodding at him to unroll the white fabric that kept her secret safe.

“I wanted to give you something in honor of our wedding but I have very little to give so I made it myself,” she said as he unrolled the white fabric to reveal the colorful gift that it hid.

The material for the kerchief was cut from a gown that Ellaria insisted had been ruined on their journey to King’s Landing. Sansa stitched the outer edges of the orange silk with gold thread before embroidering eight little red suns all within a larger Martell sun that was surrounded by the red flames of House Uller. Her fingers, unused to the feel of stitching after going so long without a needle in her hand, had been sore for the past week. She did not feel quite brave enough to meet his eyes so she kept her gaze lowered to the square of cloth as she spoke.

“It is just a small gift,” Sansa said.

Oberyn caught her chin in a gentle grip, lifting her head so that she would look into his eyes.

“It is splendid,” he assured her, looking quite serious.

His hand went from her chin to her cheek, stroking it softly before his fingers carded through her hair. Then he leaned in, pressing the same gentle kiss to her lips as before. Sansa stilled, her heart leaping nervously as she searched her mind for what to do. When she leaned forward and pressed their lips together more firmly, Oberyn’s hum of approval brought warmth to her cheeks and a pleased feeling to her chest. Remembering Ellaria’s kiss from before, Sansa drew away with a small gasp and Oberyn immediately stilled, his hand falling from her hair as he allowed the distance between them.

“Is something amiss?” he asked, looking concerned rather than angry at the interruption.

Sansa shook her head, indecision lingering as she wondered whether she should truly tell him. If she did not, surely Ellaria would. And then he may be angry that Sansa did not tell him first. She did not want to take such a risk.

“Ellaria kissed me,” she said shyly, forcing herself to hold his gaze.

As his eyebrow rose and his lips pressed in a line, Sansa regretted the decision and began to look away. Then his eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips lifted into a grin as he laughed.

“She is quite the fiend,” he said amusedly, lifting his hand to stroke her hair once more.

She leaned her head into the touch, letting her eyes close as he leaned in to kiss her again. They were gentle kisses, a mere exploration. His lips were softer than she expected and when she lifted her hand to carefully press to his cheek, his hair tickled at the tips of her fingers. When he gently pressed her back against the headboard, Sansa’s breath hitched and she grew rigid, prepared for him to remove the dressing gown. Instead he pulled away and brushed his lips over both of her cheeks then her nose and her forehead before sitting back on his heels. Sansa’s eyes fluttered open and she looked at him with confusion. 

Rather than reaching up to untie the belt at her waist, he dipped his hand beneath the hem of her gown and brushed the pads of his fingers very lightly over the side of her ankle. Sansa shuddered at the touch and could not help but let out a soft laugh. His eyes shone with mirth as his thumb rubbed gentle circles over her soft skin. It was a soothing touch that slowly helped her stiffness ease. Oberyn took her hand in his free one, lifting it to his lips to press kisses to each of her fingertips, her knuckles, the palm of her hand. They were soft, worshipful kisses that helped her to nerves to loosen their hold on her with each passing moment. Then he leaned up, kissing her pliant lips once, then twice, before pulling away to gaze down at her.

“Lovely,” he murmured.

Sansa flushed at his praise.

“Will…” she hesitated at the roughness of her voice, licking at her lips before speaking again. “Will you take your rights now, my prince?”

Oberyn withdrew just slightly as a frown creased his brow and he shook his head.

“Not until you are willing,” he said, shifting his weight back onto his knees.

The warm haze clouding her mind drifted away as Sansa sat up with wide eyes, not wanting to seem like a disobedient wife when she’d only been married for a matter of hours.

“I am willing.”

He did not look convinced and Sansa felt the sting of rejection already striking at her heart. Was he displeased with her after all? Did he wish to go no further than innocent kisses?

“I speak not of duty,” Oberyn said, cupping her face in both of his hands. “I would have your willingness born of desire.”

Sansa wished that she knew the difference. Of course he was handsome and she found the sight of his well defined arms and chest pleasing to the eye. But did she desire him? She did not know. As if reading the uncertainty in her eyes, Oberyn nodded with a slight smile.

“We will wait,” he decided.

“But the bedding…” Sansa trailed off.

“Allow me to worry about that.”

She did not know whether to argue and convince him that they should consummate the marriage or to submit to his reassurances as a dutiful wife. When he turned and rolled off of the bed, finding his feet, Sansa wondered if he would leave her now. Instead he retrieved full cups of wine for the both of them and handed hers over once he settled on the bed once more, leaning back against one of the posts.

“Will you tell me of your Winterfell? I have seen many places in my travels but never the North,” Oberyn said.

Sansa held her cup between both of her hands, conjuring an image of her home to her mind.

“The castle was not as cold as one may think,” she said, watching him as she spoke. “The outside, yes. But the nearby hot springs flowed through the walls. It was too warm for my father. He always had a window open in his solar or his bedchamber. My mother found comfort in the warmth, though. It reminded her of her childhood home. I remember so many evenings when I sat in upon her bed while she combed my hair. Other times, we would all pile into my father’s great bed and share his furs while he told us stories of the North that his father told him.”

“What stories?” Oberyn asked.

“Some of Bran the Builder, who supposedly built Winterfell with the help of giants. Other spoke of grumpkins and snarks and other creatures that appeared during the Long Night,” she said, smiling slightly as she remembered one of the more far-fetched tales that her father undoubtedly heard from Old Nan. “One story claimed that the sky was blue because we live inside the eye of a blue-eyed giant named Macumber. He nearly had my brother Bran fooled.”

Sansa kept talking and his interest never once wavered as she spoke of the parts of the North that she’d seen when they rode with their father to visit other lords. She also told him of Bran’s desire to be a member of the Kingsguard and how he always asked to hear stories of Duncan the Tall, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and even Barristan the Bold. That was when Oberyn told her of his uncle, Prince Lewyn Martell, who was a brave and kind man. He was another casualty of Robert’s Rebellion. Sansa always heard of everything that the North lost but Oberyn was giving her an entirely different view of the war.

“Can you tell me of your time in Essos?” Sansa asked, tilting her head back against the headboard.

Oberyn shook his head, reaching out to pluck the cup from her hands.

“Another evening, perhaps,” he said, standing from the bed. “I can see that you’re tired.”

She wanted to argue but realized that her eyes were burning with exhaustion and her yawns were becoming harder to stifle. Sansa watched as he laid the gift she stitched for him gently upon the table and finished off his wine before moving about the chamber to blow out the candles one by one. As he reached the last few, she climbed off of the bed and untied the satin belt, letting it drop from her shoulders before laying it over the chair with her cloak. Oberyn was gone to the privy chamber and she crossed the room quickly, slipping beneath the furs. Only once he returned did she lay down upon her pillow. Before she could open her mouth to bid him goodnight, she felt something beneath her head and pushed herself up to sit, lifting the pillow to peer underneath it. The sight of the same bejeweled dagger he’d given her several days ago caused her to pause and turn her head so that she could give him a confused look.

“I never want you to feel anything but safe, even when you are lying beside me,” Oberyn said, proving that he was clearly waiting for her to make the discovery.

Sansa felt overwhelmed with his care and reached out, taking his hand in hers to squeeze it once.

“Thank you,” she said for what felt like the hundredth time.

It would never be enough, in her mind, for the gift of freedom and choice that he offered to her. Oberyn didn’t say anything, simply pressing one last kiss to her lips before bidding her to sleep, assuring her that she could do so in comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would absolutely love to hear what you think!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that it took me a while to update. I just recently moved so I've been adding little chunks to this chapter when I've had time. This is exciting because it's where I really start deviating from the original fic that I posted a long time ago. We're in new territory here and no one has read what I have coming so I hope you all like it.
> 
> Once again, I am so incredibly grateful to you all for reading and commenting. You're amazing, each and every one of you. <3

Sansa woke slowly, everything coming back to her in pieces until she remembered where she was and, more importantly, who she was with. As soon as awareness creeped into every inch of her body, she sensed it all. The strange new weight on the bed. The added warmth beneath the covers. The slow, steady breathing of the man who was now her husband. Sansa lay as still as possible, staring at the ceiling as she kept her own breathing nearly silent. After a few tense moments, the even rhythm of his breaths convinced her that he slept on. Moving purposefully slow, she turned her head and let her eyes take in the man next to her.

He laid on his stomach with the furs only covering him to his waist and his head turned away from her. Sansa stared at him for a long stretch of time, waiting for him to wake and admonish her for staring. Yet he did not move at all. She couldn’t say what possessed her to inch closer but she found herself on the edge of her pillow with her lower lip caught between her teeth. There was a part of her that felt tempted to reach out and see if his olive skin was as smooth as it looked. Eventually her more curious side won out and she lifted her hand, very carefully and very gently brushing her fingers over his shoulder blade. His skin was quite soft and though she tried to firmly tell herself that the discovery was enough, for some reason her hand would not obey.

She traced light patterns from one shoulder to the other, then on down his spine to the small of his back. Her fingers found a few long healed scars along the way. Short, long, thin, and thick. None of them quite the same. She silently speculated whether they came from boyhood mischief, as she remembered Robb and Jon earning their share of cuts from their unrestrained recklessness, or from the many fights that earned him his reputation. With a icy chill flooding her, she felt keenly aware of the scars on her own back and wondered what he would think of them if he ever saw them. 

A soft sigh came from the man next to her just before he asked, “Why did you stop?”

Sansa startled, not realizing that she’d ceased her exploration until he spoke. Nor did she realize that he was awake, possibly the entire time.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, withdrawing her hand.

Oberyn turned his head to gaze at her, his gaze still hazy with sleep yet with a content air about him.

“There are worse ways to be woken,” he said, reaching out to gently take her hand in his.

His fingers curled around hers, his thumb pressing gently to her palm, and Sansa’s lips parted slightly as he lifted her hand to brush his lips over her fingertips.

“Did you sleep well?” Oberyn asked.

Sansa nodded in return before asking in return, “And you, my prince?”

“I slept quite well, as I always do with a companion. It’s only when I’m alone that I grow restless.”

That did not surprise Sansa. He certainly did not ever seem to lack in companionship, whether it be Ellaria or someone else who caught his eye. She did not know how she felt about marrying such a man. He did not seem any less devoted to his paramour for all the others he took to bed but Sansa did not expect the same treatment as Ellaria. She wasn’t sure what to expect beyond the kisses he gave her the night before.

“When your thoughts trouble you…” Oberyn said, inching closer to her. “… you get a crease just here.”

His thumb lifted, brushing a spot between her eyes before following the slope of her nose down to her lips. He traced them with a featherlight touch. Sansa could have melted at the caresses before he withdrew his hand entirely, clearly waiting for her to speak. 

“It just feels strange,” Sansa said, not willing to discuss his philandering ways now, if ever.

He cocked his head to the side just slightly to encourage her to continue.

“We are married,” she said simply, hoping that it was enough. “I am a wife.”

Oberyn stared at her for a long moment before a grin broke out on his face, bringing a shine to his eyes and a glow to his features. He looked truly happy, which took her by surprise.

“Indeed,” he said, playing with the ends of her hair. “And I am a husband.”

Her heart quickened a little at his words.

“How very peculiar,” Sansa said, a smile playing at her lips.

Oberyn leaned in, pressing a light kiss to her lips before rolling away. Her slight disappointment quickly turned to wide eyed realization that he’d slept in only his smallclothes. Heat rose to her cheeks as she watched him slide from beneath the covers and reach for his discarded breeches. The redness in her face, however, was nothing compared to the spot of crimson she spotted in the center of the bed. Her hand lifted of its own volition, tracing the dried smear of blood. She would certainly remember if he did anything. It was impossible that she drank enough wine to forget such a thing and she knew from Cersei that she would ache if her maidenhead were taken. Oberyn must have noticed her tense silence because he glanced over his shoulder as he straightened up.

“Many noble maidens do not bleed on their wedding night for a multitude of reasons,” he said, facing her fully. “We could easily excuse it if anyone pries but I don’t want to take the risk.”

She wasn’t sure what to make of his words and still did not know where the blood came from. The uncertainty caused her heart to race in her chest as she sat up.

“I don’t understand,” Sansa said, holding the covers to her chest with a tight grip

Oberyn held his hand out, showing her a piece of white cloth likely ripped from a tunic and wrapped around his palm.

“A wound I received while sparring with Ser Daemon, if anyone questions it,” he said, giving her a wink.

Sansa did not know what to say and she felt somewhat relieved when he left her to her thoughts, excusing himself to the privy. He certainly did not need to shed his own blood for her sake and yet the proof was right in front of her. If she had known his plan, she may have offered her own palm in replacement. But a wound on her hand would not be so easy to explain away so perhaps he had the right of it. Though it still brought about a strange emotion somewhere between discomfort and gratitude. He’d given her endless promises and, so far, managed to keep to every one of them. Instinct told her to expect that he would eventually demand something in return, other than the trust he’d already mostly earned. 

When he came back and offered to take her to her own chamber so that she could wash up before they broke their fast, Sansa agreed and slipped her dressing gown on over her shift as he respectfully turned away. When they arrived at a bedchamber only three doors away from his own, there were two maids waiting there much to her surprise. She did not even get a chance to glance around the new room as her eyes fixed upon them. Sansa recalled seeing one of the young women in Jynessa’s chambers, so she could not fathom why they were present until her husband opened his mouth to explain.

“I asked Lady Jynessa and Lady Myria if they could each spare a maid for you for the duration of our stay in King’s Landing,” Oberyn said as the maids curtsied to Sansa. “Jayde and Perra will see to your needs, whatever they may be.”

Sansa frowned, torn between the knowledge that she shouldn’t argue with him and the desire for a more familiar, understanding face.

“And Shae?” she said, her voice smaller than she meant it to be as she turned to look at him.

She hadn’t argued when they told her that Ellaria and Jynessa would be attending her before the wedding. There were certain traditions to uphold. She didn’t think, however, that she would experience the loss of her audacious handmaiden entirely. Oberyn’s face softened ever so slightly at her words and he turned to the maids, bidding them to prepare a bath for her. Once they were gone, he tugged her over to the bed and took both of her hands in his as they sat.

“I should have thought to speak to you before,” he said, a regretful sound to his voice. “Your maid was appointed by Tyrion Lannister, was she not?”

Sansa nodded, trying not to panic.

“The risk is great if she is a spy, my love,” he said, squeezing her hands gently. “I cannot scour the Lannisters from this castle quite yet but I can keep them from my own chambers and yours as well. I will not allow their eyes in here. Do you understand?”

“I do,” she said, though her heart fluttered anxiously in her chest.

Without Shae, there would be no one who knew of her experiences at court. No one who could understand Joffrey’s cruelty without having seen its effect on her firsthand. Sansa knew that Jayde and Perra were more than likely kind and eager to serve but they were unfamiliar.

“I don’t wish to be a burden, my prince, nor do I wish to take away from Lady Jynessa or Lady Myria. I can attend to myself,” she said.

Oberyn frowned only slightly before shaking his head.

“A princess of Dorne need not attend herself.”

Sansa twitched at his words, realizing that the title was hers to claim. Oberyn’s protection surrounded her now, especially with the blood that stained the sheets. Their union was not consummated in truth but no one would know that. It was becoming increasingly clear that Oberyn would go to great lengths to protect those he deemed worthy of it. The coarse scrape of his makeshift bandage beneath her palm was evidence enough of that.

“Thank you,” she said, forcing a smile onto her face.

She would feel Shae’s absence rather keenly but Oberyn was right. It was a small price to pay to ensure that they were safe. Sansa knew how important that was, more than most. She only hoped that Shae would find a place with a kind master or mistress. Despite the fact that she agreed, Oberyn looked troubled. Sansa wanted to reassure him but didn’t know what she’d done to upset him. Before she could say a word, the maids reappeared and Oberyn released her hands to dismiss himself so that she could bathe. Sansa watched him leave with her lips pressed in a tight line and stared at the door long past Jayde’s soft announcement that the bath was filled for her.

The water was still warm when she stepped behind the screen and slipped out of the dressing gown, shift, and smallclothes that she wore. Sansa leaned her head against the edge of the tub and closed her eyes as her tense form refused to relent to the soothing water. Far too many troubled thoughts swirled about her head, concerns of Joffrey and Cersei still at the forefront. The king’s wedding grew closer every day and Sansa feared what spectacles he had in store, wondering if her status as Prince Oberyn’s wife would protect her from any humiliation he had planned.

She was so thoroughly entwined in her thoughts and worries that she did not think twice before wringing out her hair once she stood from the bath, earning twin gasps from Jayde and Perra stepped behind the screen to attend her. She heard the sound of cloth hitting the stone floor as icy realization flooded her. She’d been far too careless. It was easy to hide the scars on her back from prying eyes during the bedding and she’d even managed to prevent Ellaria and Jynessa from seeing them when they helped her dress for the wedding. Oberyn wasn’t an issue since he did not demand that she undress for him.

But she hadn’t considered the handmaidens.

“What happened to you, Princess?” Perra said, looking horrified.

Sansa tried to swallow, finding it hard with the sudden dryness of her throat as she stepped out of the bath and held her hand out for the sheet that Jayde dropped to the floor.

“It’s no matter,” Sansa said, her voice trembling slightly as Jayde bent to retrieve the sheet.

She swiftly covered herself with it once Jayde handed it over, wishing that she could turn back time. Judging by the uncertainty in the eyes of the two women before her, her words were hardly convincing.

“Shall we call for a maester?” Jayde asked.

Sansa shook her head, on the verge of outright panic. Not only would she hate to have Maester Pycelle or the odd Maester Qyburn in her chambers, she did not want word of it reaching Oberyn. He’d question it all and she’d have to show him. Then it would all be over. He would certainly curse the ruined wife he’d already tied himself to with the blood that he shed for her. A man having scars was one thing, especially one with his experience and reputation. A noble wife and a newly made princess was quite another. She had no defense for herself. No reason that he should look upon her ravaged back with any sort of kindness or understanding.

“There is no need,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “The wound are long since healed.”

It was true. They’d caused her pain when she first received the horrific blows from gleaming swords and mailed fists but her previous attendants treated the wounds as best they could and the only pain they gave her now was the awful memory of each beating and the nightmares that they gave her. Though Jayde and Perra seemed to accept her words, moving away so that she could dry herself before dressing, Sansa feared that it would not end here. A sick feeling stirred in her gut, telling her that she’d hoped for far too much. She could only wish that the prince was far more understanding than most.

She didn’t think that she could bear experiencing the slightest taste of freedom only to have it wrenched away from her by cruel gods who seemed to relish in her torment.

*****

Once she dressed and broke her fast with the light array of foods set out for her, Sansa found herself quite at a loss for what to do. Oberyn and Ellaria both assured her more than once that her marriage to him released her from most expectations. If the Dornish nobles attended court or appeared in the gardens, it was simply because they wished to, not because they were required. Sansa could enjoy the same freedom of choice, if she wished. Though she did not know if Joffrey or Cersei would agree, she was willing to take her chances. She couldn’t imagine that either of them, much less Tywin or Tyrion, wanted a confrontation with Prince Oberyn if they decided to make demands of his new wife.

So she sat upon her balcony for a while, enjoying the salty breeze from the bay before making her way inside and exploring her new bedchamber. It was only when she stepped outside that she found Ser Daemon standing guard at her door, blinking at him with surprise as he turned and bowed low to her, keeping a firm hold on the spear in his hand. He wore the strange copper armor and orange silk cloak of other Dornish guards and knights. Sansa bit the curious questions that rose to her tongue, wondering how well the overlapping discs protected the men that wore them and if it was a more practical alternative to the steel armor that the rest of Westeros wore.

“Princess,” Ser Daemon said, rising from his bow and pressing his right fist over his heart in a sign of respect she hadn’t yet seen.

“Ser,” she said, unsure of what to do but nod to him. “Is Ellaria somewhere around here?”

Sansa didn’t plan to ask for Ellaria but the words slipped from her mouth before she could call them back. Perhaps she unknowingly longed to speak to her, a part of her wanting the comfort that the other woman seemed to so effortlessly provide.

“She ventured into the city for the day, my princess,” Daemon told her.

Disappointment unfurled in her chest but Sansa did her best to keep it from her face, her eyes darting away as she wondered what else she might do. She feared to call on Jynessa, in case one or both of her handmaidens already whispered of her scars to her friend as soon as she dismissed the two of them.

“Prince Oberyn is in the stables.”

Her eyes flitted back to the knight, wondering if he sought to soothe the unease that likely filled the air around her at the moment. Or perhaps he was giving her a gentle nudge in the right direction, telling her that she should seek out her husband to discover what he wished for her to do. That was certainly the best thing that she could do, in the moment. If he had duties he required of her, wifely or otherwise, she was duty bound to see to them. With a firm nod, she took a deep breath and turned to make her way down the corridor, listening as Ser Daemon followed her at the respectful distance of a sworn knight to his new princess.

As soon as she left the relative comfort of the castle wing that the Dornish company claimed, Sansa nearly regretted the decision to leave her chambers. She felt every passing eye upon her, nobles and servants alike craning their necks to see what had become of Oberyn Martell’s young wife after her wedding night. Sansa wondered if she should walk more stiffly, perhaps with a bit of discomfort feigned upon her face to convince them all that the blood on the sheets came from between her thighs. She decided against it, knowing that there was every chance she’d give away the ruse if she tried to act like a woman bedded when she had no true inkling of what it felt like.

Sansa didn’t bring herself to wonder why Prince Oberyn was in the stables until she reached the doors, hesitating there as she wondered if he intended to ride out into the city to meet Ellaria. Would she only be delaying him? Was he already gone? Surely Ser Daemon wouldn’t guide her out here if either was true. So she kept her eyes firmly forward as she continued on into the stables, barely aware of the grooms that rushed to bow to her now when they’d barely given a care for her back when she was nothing but the daughter of a traitor and Joffrey’s plaything. She found her husband in one of the stalls, attending to his dark horse with great care.

She stood a fair distance from the doorway as the stallion noticed her first, his black eyes as keen as his master’s as he chuffed and stomped much like he had the last time she saw him. Oberyn let out a tutting noise as he ran a brush over the horse’s already gleaming coat, unconcerned with the temperament of his steed. As if he felt her eyes upon him, he glanced over his shoulder with suspicion written upon his features until he realized who spied upon him. A smile tugged at his lips as he tilted his head, wordlessly inviting her to come nearer. Sansa took a very wary step forward, unsure of how the fire-maned horse would respond to her. Daemon cleared his throat before she could get far and she looked at him only to see that he held out an apple.

“He’s spoiled rotten for the things,” he said with a wink.

Sansa gave him a small smile, taking the apple from him.

“The prince or the horse?” she asked, earning a bark of laughter from her husband and an amused snort from the knight.

A pleased, satisfied feeling rose in her as she stepped closer, holding the apple out in offering as the horse extended his head and gave the treat a sniff before taking it from her swiftly.

“Does he have a name?” Sansa asked before she could help herself, watching as Oberyn returned to the task at hand.

“Ānogār.”

“Anogar,” Sansa said, knowing full well that she’d butchered the pronunciation.

Oberyn said it once more and she repeated it a little better.

“It is High Valyrian, is it not?” Sansa asked, receiving a confirming hum from him as she reached out to stroke the horse’s nose. “What does it mean?”

“Blood,” he said, and she found that it didn’t surprise her at all.

“Wouldn’t fire fit him better?” Sansa said, running her fingers gently through the horse’s mane.

Oberyn rounded the front of the horse, his hand brushing lightly over her hip as he passed her and bringing a bout of goosebumps to the surface of her skin as he moved to the other side of the stall.

“I found him in a market at a town near Vaith,” he said, setting himself to work brushing Ānogār on the other side. “Many people breed sand steeds in Dorne and they are usually fairly treated but the man I saw was beating this very horse. Ānogār was wild and rather difficult, according to the man who owned him at the time. Being rather troublesome myself, I stepped in, stood between the horse and the breeder, and took two blows myself before snatching the whip away.”

Sansa found herself on the edge of gasping at the thought of Oberyn standing between a horse and a whip.

“What happened?” she asked, her eyes wide as she watched his careful, precise movements, thoroughly convinced of the care he had for his horse.

“I persuaded the breeder to give the steed away for the troubles he caused a prince of Dorne and I sent him away so that I could speak to the horse.”

Somehow the idea of it didn’t sound ridiculous because she could imagine Oberyn doing all of this. Any other man and she may have laughed at the thought but she could quite easily picture the intensity in his gaze as he sent the breeder running in fear.

“I turned to Ānogār and managed to quiet him. His blood stained my fingers and mine dripped on his coat as we took the measure of one another. That is why I named him thus. To always remember our bond forged in blood,” Oberyn finished.

Ānogār snorted and tossed his head as if reaffirming the story. She felt somewhat similar to this horse for the Dornish prince standing before her had stepped in to save them both. She wondered if the horse bore scars from his cruel master just as she did from a ruthless king.

“Ānogār,” Sansa pronounced.

“Perfect,” Oberyn said approvingly.

She smiled with satisfaction as Oberyn set aside the brush and ran his hand along Ānogār’s flank before turning his attention upon her.

“Now,” he said, wiping his hands upon a cloth he pulled from where it lay over his shoulder before handing it off to a groom that jumped in to attend him. “What can I do for my lovely wife?”

Oberyn reached out, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. Sansa glanced away, apprehension filling her yet again as she considered her words carefully before meeting his gaze and speaking again.

“I only wish to know what you require of me,” she said, earning a slightly confused frown. “I’m certain that there are duties required of me, as your wife, but they have not yet been explained to me.”

“What duties do you expect to fulfill?” Oberyn asked, tucking her hand into his elbow as he led her from the stables with Ser Daemon still following them.

Sansa considered his question for a moment before answering.

“My mother told me some things, as well as the maester and the septa at Winterfell,” she admitted, keeping her words quiet so that only he could hear. “It mostly had to do with running a household and attending to my husband’s keep.”

“Well my household is hardly much to run, though you’re welcome to it if you wish, and I have no keep to call my own so you are free from that particular burden,” Oberyn told her.

Sansa nodded, wondering why the second son of Dorne was never given property of his own. Was it simply not done in Dorne? Did Prince Doran see no need to send his brother away to a far off keep when they had a palace in Sunspear to call their own? In another life, she couldn’t imagine Robb becoming Lord of Winterfell and expecting Bran and Rickon to stay there as well, with their own wives and families. She was in the midst of battling with her curiosity when Oberyn said her name questioningly.

“I apologize, my prince,” Sansa said, her cheeks warming as she felt his attentive gaze upon her. “Is there anything else that I can do? Anything to alleviate your burdens?”

Oberyn stopped, turning to face her and gently tilting her chin up with his finger and thumb as she met his dark gaze.

“You may do as you wish,” he said, his voice hushed but firm as he spoke. “Take over every account and leave me penniless if it will bring you joy.”

Sansa’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to protest until she saw the amused glint in his eyes.

“It most certainly would not bring me joy, my prince,” she said, fighting a smile.

Oberyn grinned at her without restraint, making her wonder if she could ever do the same. If trust would ever come easily to her again. Perhaps it would not. She’d learned, after all, and trust should not be given to those who did not deserve it. Sansa was long past wondering if Oberyn and Ellaria deserved it. Their promises were true and their words were their law. She just wished that there wasn’t a part of her that still waited for a revelation. For a plot to reveal itself that would take away her confidence and crush the trust she felt beneath fate’s cruel heel.

As if he sensed the dark path of her thoughts, Oberyn leaned in and brushed a kiss over her lips, chasing it all away as his arm wrapped around her waist. Their embrace surely didn’t go unnoticed, for the stood in the middle of the courtyard, but she could not bring herself to pay attention to a single other person as her husband kissed her for all to see. Then he pulled away, giving her another smile that made her heart flutter happily in her chest.

“I will think on it,” he promised her, turning to walk with her once again. “In the meantime, let us discover what delights await us in the gardens where I’m certain the Tyrells are celebrating something or another.”

Sansa let him lead her easily, her mind soothed for the moments as her troubled thoughts seemed distant to her now.

*****

After taking a short period of rest, Sansa found herself alone in her chambers for the afternoon, the windows tossed open to allow a gentle breeze to fill her chamber. She sat on a comfortable lounge chair, her legs curled beneath her gown and an unfamiliar book of poems open on her lap. Jayde and Perra had busied themselves with sorting through her gowns, old and new, to take inventory of what she may need. Sansa tried to assure them that it was not necessary but they simply exchanged an amused look before assuring her in return that Prince Oberyn would spare no coin to see her dressed like a true Dornish princes. Having seen the silk gowns and revealing dips and cutouts that her new companions wore, Sansa tried and failed not to flush at the idea of wearing them herself.

So she distracted herself with the book that she’d found among a small collection in her outer chamber, her eyes darting along the words as she sipped at a glass of honey-sweetened milk. When the knock came on the door, she barely managed to set aside her cup and book before Perra breezed out of her chamber and fixed her with a look that bid her to remain exactly where she was. They’d also taken it upon themselves to let her know what courtesy she was required to show now. Unless she faced the king and queen of Westeros, her husband, or Prince Doran himself, she did not need to rise for anyone else. Ellaria looked unbothered by her seated position as she walked in, gifting Sansa with a bright smile.

“I see you found some of Oberyn’s little gifts.”

Sansa gave her a confused look as she crossed over to sit upon the end of the long lounge chair. Ellaria cut her eyes purposefully to the book, distracting Sansa from the curious silk pouch she held in her hands.

“He likes to gather books and stories from every place he’s traveled. Sometimes he gives them as gifts and sometimes he translates them into Rhoynish, Valyrian, or Andaii. You are holding one such translation.”

Sansa glanced down at the book, realizing that the careful writing within belonged to Oberyn. It somehow made the book feel all the more intimate.

“I have another for you.”

Sansa thought Ellaria might have meant a book but then she watched as the other woman uncinched the pouch and pulled out a sunburst pendant with a small diamond at the center. There was a time that she feared the touch of gold on her skin, for it was the sign of Lannister power over her, but she could not help but admire the beautiful piece as Ellaria held it up for her to see.

“It’s lovely,” Sansa breathed, brushing her fingers over the delicate rays of the sun. “Though it is far too much for me, Ellaria. This is surely a gift meant for one of your daughters.”

“We have other treasures for them,” Ellaria said, her eyes gleaming as she unclasped the gold chain and leaned forward to fit it around Sansa’s neck.

The light spice of her perfume reached Sansa’s nose as she clasped the necklace in place before drawing away to admire her handiwork.

“Perfect,” Ellaria decided, brushing a featherlight touch over the pendent with her thumb before looking up at Sansa and doing the same over her cheek. “I thought you might look different, my love. Oberyn treated you well, yes?”

Color rose to Sansa’s cheeks as she realized Ellaria’s meaning.

“He was very kind to me,” she said with a nod before lowering her voice so that only Ellaria could hear. “Though he did no more than kiss me.”

Ellaria did not look altogether surprised at her words, as if she expected no more or less from the man that they shared. Sansa felt the sudden urge to seek out her counsel. If Oberyn would not explain more of what he meant that morning, perhaps Ellaria could. Who better to ask than the woman who knew the man better than anyone?

“He told me that he would wait until I desired him. I told him that I was willing but that was not enough for him.”

“Willingness does not equal desire, my love,” Ellaria said, her words so similar to the ones Oberyn spoke the night before.

As if inspired by something, Ellaria took both of Sansa’s hands in her own and stared straight into her eyes.

“What have you learned of your own body?” she asked.

Sansa frowned a little, tilting her head to the side out of confusion.

“I don’t-”

She cut off abruptly, the meaningful look in Ellaria’s dark eyes giving her the understanding that she needed.

“Oh! I-I couldn’t,” Sansa stammered out, shaking her head as heat bloomed in her cheeks. “It’s not… not proper.”

“How so?” Ellaria asked.

Sansa stared at her, her lips parted and her heart fluttering nervously in her chest. She hadn’t even considered it before, so afraid of what may happen to her at the hands of cruel men that she never once thought of touching herself in her most intimate of places.

“The gods…” Sansa said timidly.

Ellaria let out a dismissive noise, batting a hand at the air before grasping Sansa’s hand once more.

“What hands are permitted to touch you if not your own?” she asked, arching one eyebrow questioningly.

Sansa was quite at a loss, almost unable to believe that they were even talking about it. Ellaria’s expression faded into one of sympathy and kindness, her hands squeezing Sansa’s lightly.

“Before you met us, how long had it been since you were touched kindly? Without ill intent?”

Sansa’s mouth fell open once more the heat of embarrassment that flooded her before was quickly chased away by the chill of the truth she did not want to share. She imagined that her once red cheeks were now pale and her eyes were wide out of fear, rather than surprise. She searched her mind, trying to find the right thing to say. Trying to scrape together the armor she’d shielded herself with for so long. All of the courtesies and lies that kept her alive. But Ellaria didn’t let her pull away, giving her hands another gentle squeeze.

“You feared touch, sweet girl, far more than a woman of your age should. It does not take much to see that you have been ill treated,” she said, staring deep into Sansa’s eyes without relenting. “I did not need the words of two loyal handmaidens to know that you have been harmed.”

Sansa shuddered violently, her eyes falling closed as she realized that Jayde and Perra spoke to someone after all.

“I will not wrench the truth from you,” Ellaria assured her, brushing a gentle thumb over the back of her hand. “You are entitled to your silence. But if you ever wish to understand desire, you must first learn to understand yourself. Do not fear your body and do not hate it either. You did nothing to deserve your suffering and your body did not bring these scars upon itself. Touch it. Learn how it feels. Let your body and mind understand that there is not just pain in this world, but pleasure as well.”

Sansa slowly opened her eyes, meeting Ellaria’s gaze once more and finding only understanding there.

“I don’t know how,” she said honestly, her voice trembling just slightly.

Ellaria’s mouth lifted into a small smile.

“Learn,” she instructed, releasing Sansa’s hands to cup her cheeks. “I will ensure your privacy at night. You will be safe to do what you wish. Give your body your love, Sansa, and you will come to understand what we mean when we speak of desire.”

Sansa nodded, managing the smallest of smiles. Ellaria gave her a radiant one in return, leaning into steal another soft kiss. This time, Sansa did not hesitate to kiss her in return, silently praying that she would come to understand love and desire, even if she had to shed her last vestiges of innocence and naivety to do so. The world had made her many things. A lady. An orphan. An heir. A traitor. A princess. It was up to her to make herself into a woman. It wasn’t a freedom that she expected, though one that she was grateful to have. Yet another choice given to her by the most unexpected of sources.

A notorious Dornish prince and his equally notable paramour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear what you think!
> 
> Someone requested more Ellaria/Sansa so I hope that this chapter teased a little at their developing relationship. There will most definitely be more of them to come. I have a few scenes in mind already of those two alone.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to everyone who reads, comments on, and supports this fic. I adore you all beyond belief.

With an ivory trebuchet pinched between two fingers, Sansa eyed Ellaria warily over the cyvasse board. Not for the sake of the game, but for the thoughts that swirled in her head. Four days had passed since she wed Oberyn, bringing them ever close to the union between Joffrey and Margaery and further from the last conversation between Ellaria and Sansa this exact room.  She’d been left to her own devices each night and entertained by the Dornish company each day, given little time to concern herself with the impending royal celebrations. Lying in her own bed each night, surrounded by darkness and quite unable to forget Ellaria’s words, Sansa felt more young and naive than she had in years. Her hands faltered as she tried to follow the other woman’s challenging advice.

“You rarely use your dragon,” Ellaria remarked, considering her own pieces. “It’s an interesting strategy.”

“I suspect that many people fall into the trap of only using their most powerful pieces,” Sansa said, holding up her trebuchet where Ellaria could see it without looking away from the board. “Pawns can strike heavy blows too.”

Ellaria arched one eyebrow and Sansa waited for her disagreement. To be handed an insult.  _ Stupid little girl. Empty headed. Nothing but pretty little smiles and pretty little words. Too simple to understand the truth of things. _ But the other woman didn’t say anything of the sort.

“That they can,” Ellaria said, moving a piece.

Sansa set the trebuchet down before shifting a spearman over a space. They played in silence for a few minutes, their minds engaged in strategy until Ellaria spoke again.

“How have your nights treated you?”

Color rose to her cheeks and she felt her heart flutter oddly in her chest at the question. She’d been waiting for Ellaria to ask. It was only a matter of when. Though as much as she expected it, she had no proper answer at the ready.

“They've been rather frustrating,” she admitted, refusing to look away from her ivory pieces. “I feel foolish.”

“Why?”

She lifted her shoulder in an entirely unladylike shrug, not wanting to meet Ellaria’s gaze as a disgruntled, shameful feeling spread through her.

“I find myself lost in my thoughts,” Sansa said, brushing her fingers over the finely carved dragon’s wings. “I cannot pull myself from my head long enough to do anything that feels… that feels…”

She trailed off, not quite knowing how to explain herself.

“It may take time,” Ellaria said, sounding unconcerned. “And practice.”

Sansa finally lifted her eyes, fixing her with a look.

“When we were children, my brother Robb was always better at his sums,” she said, folding her arms atop the table where they played. “I wanted to excel at everything. I wanted to earn the pride of my father and the praise of my mother. It made me so angry that I could not match him in skill. No matter how many times Maester Luwin told me that I would simply have to work at it to be as good, I could not help but feel angry each time Robb surpassed me. But it wasn’t even about my brother. Not really. In truth, I dislike when something doesn’t come to me naturally.”

Ellaria let out a light laugh that came more out of amusement than at Sansa’s expense.

“Don’t we all?” she asked.

Sansa didn’t disagree with her, though she could not bring herself to laugh either.

“That is how I feel now,” she confessed, glancing away from her as she tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I feel very little when I try to explore myself. Only fear and-and shame. I do not know how to make any of that go away, so I give up out of frustration. I fear that it will never change. That _ I _ will never change. When I was betrothed to Joffrey, I heard whispers about this very castle that northern women are as cold and unfeeling as the Wall and I cannot help but wonder if it may be true, at least when it comes to me.”

Ellaria regarded her in silence for several long moments, as focused and studious as she was with the cyvasse board. Then she reached down, glancing at the table just long enough to knock a piece from her side of the board. Sansa saw that it was the king just as the onyx piece clattered to the floor. A small gasp slipped from her lips as she feared it would break, but nothing happened.  Before she could ask what Ellaria meant by it, the other woman stood and held out her hand. Sansa glanced at it, uncertainty tugging at her chest just before she chased it away with a deep breath, slipping her own hand into Ellaria’s. She did not hesitate when Ellaria tugged her up, leading her to the bed. With round eyes and a fluttering stomach, Sansa followed and sat atop the mattress when Ellaria urged her to do so before taking a spot next to her. Then the other woman lifted her free hand, placing it on Sansa’s cheek.

“You feel plenty warm to me,” Ellaria said, one corner of her mouth lifting in a smirk.

Sansa knew what she was trying to prove and though she felt grateful for it, she didn’t yet feel soothed by her words.

“On the surface,” she said, her voice trembling ever so slightly. “It is beneath that I am worried about.”

Ellaria barely let the words slip from her lips before she leaned in, capturing them in a gentle kiss. Sansa inhaled through her nose, though her body seemed to relax into the kiss before her mind could catch up to what was happening. Warmth spread from her head to her toes, tingling in her fingertips and filling her with a pleasant hum. Sansa pressed ever so slightly closer, wordlessly letting Ellaria know that it was quite alright with her that they do this. When Ellaria’s hand slowly inched from her cheek to her throat, her thumb pushing gently at her chin until Sansa yielded and tilted her head back, she hardly knew what to expect.  A small gasp flew from parted, tingling lips as Ellaria kissed her way along her jawline, sending sparks of heat down her spine and bringing goosebumps to the surface of her skin. When she pulled away, Sansa trapped a noise of protest in her throat and shuddered when Ellaria stroked her thumb along the column of her throat. The keening noise that rose to her lips could not be stopped as warm lips found a sensitive spot on her throat, sweeping over it before lingering there, hot breath sweeping over her skin and sending warmth straight to the apex of her thighs.

“Oh,” Sansa gasped out when Ellaria kissed the spot again, her body responding in ways that she hadn’t experienced before. “That-that’s… lovely.”

She could not think of another word, even as Ellaria smiled against her skin before scraping her teeth ever so gently over the same spot.

“ _ Oh! _ ”

Sansa’s entire body shivered at once and Ellaria pulled away after pressing another kiss there, stroking her thumb over Sansa’s pulse point in rhythmic motions until she dared to open her eyes. Meeting the impossibly darker gaze of the other woman, Sansa wondered if it was really desire that she saw the in the depths of Ellaria’s eyes.

“Not cold at all, my love,” Ellaria said in a gentle, reassuring voice. “Only unlearned.”

“I would like to do that again,” Sansa confessed, her words breathless and unthinking.

Ellaria looked pleased at that, leaning in to give her another soft kiss.

“I did not ask this before, because I did not think of it, but would you like for your exploration to be done alone? Or with guidance?” she asked once she pulled away.

Sansa’s eyes grew wide as she realized what Ellaria asked of her. She searched her mind for an answer, her eyes darting this way and that, before she could manage the two words that rang the most true.

“Not here.”

Ellaria looked surprised and befuddled all at once.

“I cannot… here,” Sansa said, only just coming to the realization herself as she looked around, trying to find the right words. “This place is… I feel their eyes on me, even here. I cannot escape the feeling that they are always watching, always waiting. They would seize any chance to give me the same fate as my family and if not that, they will subvert any chance I have at happiness. I cannot… I cannot do it here.”

Ellaria tilted her head back towards her gently, meeting her gaze once more.

“I understand,” the other woman said with a nod. “It is a place full of blood and ghosts for us all.”

Sansa relaxed as soon as she heard the words, nodding her head as well. If there was anyone who could understand, it was the Dornish.

*****

Laughter filled the air as Sansa twirled around with very little grace to her form, her eyes on Jynessa and Myria as they tried to lead her through the steps of a Dornish dance. They were in Ellaria’s solar, the furniture cleared to serve as their makeshift dance space. Her hands clutched at her skirts, tears pricking at her eyes that did not come from humiliation or pain. She’d simply laughed too much, which she hadn’t experienced in so long that it was an unfamiliar sensation. It helped that they’d helped themselves to a fair share of food and wine, loosening her limbs and her smile.

“I used to be a fair dancer,” Sansa claimed, her cheeks aching from her smiles as she threw her arms in the air, close to giving up entirely.

“Hush now,” Ellaria said, her own eyes shining with mirth as she approached with her hands held out. “You still are. It only takes a bit of practice.”

Sansa took the other woman’s hands, facing her as she began moving through the steps slowly. With her eyes on Ellaria’s feet, she took a moment before moving as well, managing to dance far more gracefully.

“There you are,” Ellaria said approvingly.

Sansa clutched at her hands, pressing her lips together with concentration. She’d learned northern reels all too easily in Winterfell, having seen them performed before her all her life. Septa Mordane even taught her dances from the Crownlands while her mother instructed her in ones from the Riverlands. But nothing Dornish ever touched the North before now, apart from the fruits and wines they imported through White Harbor. Sansa felt about as graceful as Hodor as she struggled her way through the dance, allowing Ellaria to twirl her under her arm as she let out a near giggle.

“Is there hope for me yet?” she said, her words light and jesting.

Ellaria caged her face with two gentle hands upon her cheeks, grinning at her.

“Far more than you know,” she said, her own words running deep.

Sansa’s chest warmed and she smiled as well, closing her eyes as Ellaria pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead.

“Ser Daemon,” Ellaria called out, stepping away from her. “I believe this lady needs a proper partner.”

Sansa looked around where her guard sat in a chair, helping himself to the plate of lemon cakes that she’d pushed his way after eating far more than she should have. He let out a snort, taking a long drink of wine before rising to his feet.

“Proper?” he questioned, crossing the room towards them.

“Perhaps an overstatement,” Ellaria said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “But you will have to do for now.”

Sansa pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at poor Ser Daemon’s expense, her hands falling to her hips.

“I dearly hope that your boots are thick, ser,” she said as he took his place opposite her. “There is every chance that I will tread on your toes.”

“I’ve danced with you before, my lady,” Daemon said, lowering his voice as if he was imparting some dangerous secret. “You are light as a feather. I doubt you could do damage if you tried.”

Sansa’s lips tugged into a smile as Ellaria tsked nearby, pushing them closer together.

“I caution you not to underestimate our wolf,” she said, winking at Sansa before stepping away and nodding.

The urge to laugh rose in her chest again as they began slowly moving through the dance. She found it easier to dance the more times they went through the repetitive steps, her body and mind memorizing the steps. The back of her neck pricked at the sensation of new eyes upon her, yet it was a familiar gaze. She could easily guess who it was even as she kept her back turned to the newcomer. When it came time for Daemon to lift her, his arm around her waist pressing her flush to his body in a way that northern dances never allowed, she let out a shriek at how easily he lifted her into the air, dissolving into peals of laughter before her feet even touched the ground.

“My apologies, Ser Daemon,” Sansa said, stumbling away from him as he shook his head amusedly. “There was no fault in your dancing. You are most assuredly proper, unlike myself.”

“A bold lie, if I’ve ever heard one.”

She whirled around, pressing a hand over her chest as she made a show of being startled at Oberyn’s sudden appearance. He walked straight to her, both of his arms winding around her as he lifted her into a hug, his face pressed into her hair as she looped her arms around his neck.

“You could not be more proper if you tried, my lovely wife,” he said, his breath washing over her neck and making her shiver.

Sansa looked up at him as he set her back on her feet, tilting her head to the side as a smile touched on her lips once more. Before she could say anything, another voice rose up.

“I believe we requested a morning with these lovely ladies around us,” Ellaria said, pulling their attention towards her. “Our prince was not invited.”

“As much as I wish to delight in the fact that you included Daemon in your feminine plans,” Oberyn said, shooting a smirk to the knight only to receive a rude gesture in return. “I will not be kept away with the sharpest dagger in the world.”

He reached out, pulling Ellaria in close as she and Sansa exchanged a look that was equal parts exasperation and affection for the man that embraced them.

“I also came to see if two of the loveliest ladies in the city might take a ride with me,” he offered.

Sansa perked up at that. She would take any chance to get out of the city, even if it was for a matter of hours. Yet as she looked between Ellaria and Oberyn, she could see an unspoken communication pass between them. There was something else at hand, something that she was not aware of. Her good cheer faded ever so slightly but she hid it well when Oberyn looked her way, giving him a smile as she nodded her assent.

“Perhaps another day for me,” Ellaria said, reaching out to stroke Sansa’s cheek with her thumb.

Though it may well have been her imagination, Sansa thought she may have seen a look of wariness cross Oberyn’s face, as if he wished for it to be the three of them, rather than two.

“I can wait as well,” Sansa said, not wishing to disappoint anyone.

“No,” her prince said, shaking his head as the odd look faded. “Let us have our ride, my princess.”

He pressed a kiss to Ellaria’s lips before tucking Sansa’s hand in his arm, leading her away. Indecision battled in her chest as she wondered if this was truly what he wanted.

“You do not have to, my prince,” she said quietly, looking up at him as they made their way towards the door. “Not on my account.”

Oberyn looked down at her, a smile pulling at his lips.

“I very rarely do things that I do not wish to do,” he assured her.

Sansa gave him a soft smile, not entirely convinced, but she knew better than to push it.

“Shall I accompany you?” Daemon offered as they neared the door.

Oberyn shook his head, reaching out to clap his shoulder.

“I imagine we can find a way to go on without your illustrious company,” he said, winking at him.

Daemon rolled his eyes but the look upon his face told Oberyn to exercise care. Judging by the way her husband nodded, the message was well received. Sansa allowed him to lead her out of the chamber and down the corridor to her own lodgings. Jayde and Perra both snapped to attention when they saw not only their mistress walk through the door, but Oberyn as well. They sank into quick curtsies, murmuring out their titles though Sansa tried to insist several days before they they call her by her name instead. It hadn’t yet happened.

“Prepare our princess for a ride,” Oberyn said, guiding her forward.

Sansa glanced over her shoulder at him, feeling the twin gazes of her handmaidens at her back. She still feared their presence around him, wondering if it was only a matter of time before they sought him out to discuss the scars upon her back. As far as they knew, the marriage had been consummated, so there was no reason that he should not know. That was the only safeguard she had against him finding out.

“Shall I meet you in the stables, husband?” Sansa asked.

Oberyn nodded his assent, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

“I shall make our preparations,” he said, stroking his thumb over her jaw before turning away.

She took a deep breath before turning away in time for him to hesitate at the door, unable to see the conflicted look upon his face as he glanced between her and the women that he assigned to her service. Once the door shut behind him, Sansa slipped behind the screen with Perra to undress from the fine seafoam dress she wore. Jayde appeared with a deep emerald riding habit lined with black fur. Sansa stepped into it and remained perfectly still as Jayde laced her into it. Before either could ask if she needed help, she crossed to her dressing table and sat, removing the pins from her simply styled hair to weave her long auburn tresses into a braid over her shoulder. Once she tied it off and dabbed perfume on her wrists and throat, Sansa deemed herself ready with a nod.

“Shall we accompany you, Princess?” Perra asked.

Sansa began to shake her head but reconsidered, not wanting to face the court alone. Though no one dared to bother her since her wedding, she still feared what may happen if Joffrey or Cersei stumbled upon her alone. Though two Dornish handmaidens could hardly be counted upon to defend her as a knight could, only a very brave or very foolish soul would dare to insult the new Princess of Dorne within their hearing, lest word make it back to her husband. So she permitted them to walk with her, anticipation unfurling in her chest as she crossed the grounds of the castle to the stables.

Once she stepped inside, the smallest of frowns pulled at her face when she saw Oberyn with none other than  Ānogār. The last time, she’d ridden her own horse as they made their way through the capital and beyond. Yet this time, there seemed to be no other horse saddled and prepared. With the smallest of gasps, Sansa realized that Oberyn must intend for her to ride with him. The very thought brought a flush to her cheeks. Apart from brief embraces and tender kisses, she hadn’t been so close to him since they slept in the same bed on their wedding night.

“You may spend the rest of the day as you wish,” she instructed, glancing over her shoulder at Jayde and Perra. “I will only require you to bathe and dress before I retire for the night.”

Both of the women nodded, curtsying deep before turning to leave the stables. Once she turned back around, Sansa saw Oberyn standing next to his horse studying her carefully.

“Is something amiss, my prince?” Sansa asked, lifting her hand to her mouth lest it be stained with food or drink.

He shook his head, holding out his hand to her.

“Are you ready?”

She nodded, taking his hand in her gloved one. Sansa allowed him to help her onto the horse, arranging her skirts as quickly as she could before he swung up behind her. Warmth touched on her cheeks as their position brought them very close, his arms wrapping around her to grasp Ānogār’s reins. Running her fingers through the bright mane just before her, Sansa tried very hard to keep her breathing level as he kicked the horse into motion.

Oberyn kept a leisurely pace and the stiffness slowly eased from her muscles until she was settled back into his chest. He hummed in approval, bestowing a kiss upon her temple. They wandered about until he found his way to the Mud Gate, leading them into the Kingswood rather than the tourney grounds where they went before. As Oberyn urged the horse into a trot, Sansa finally spoke.

“You haven’t said where we’re going,” she told him, trying to make her voice seem curious rather than suspicious.

“You haven’t asked,” Oberyn said simply.

She faltered at that, wondering if he intended for her to ask or if he wanted her to stay silent.

“It won’t be much further,” he said, taking pity on her.

She nodded, leaning into him more as they continued on. By the time they stopped in a small clearing miles away from the city, Sansa was relieved to slide from the saddle and into Oberyn’s waiting arms. Her limbs and back were stiff from sitting in the saddle and needed some time to stretch. She did so, lifting her arms above her head and glancing around curiously. It was only when she heard the sound of a sword unsheathing that she whirled around and saw Oberyn holding the weapon that had apparently been tied to the saddle the entire time, unbeknownst to her. 

She could not help but take a step back, her heart beating furiously at the memory of the Kingsguard using their swords to beat her. Oberyn no doubt noticed the fear written upon her face as she breathed through her panic, reminding herself that he had never done anything to harm her. When he took a slow step towards her, a questioning look in his gaze, Sansa nodded once and allowed him to approach. To her utter surprise, he turned the sword around with the hilt facing her.

“Take it,” Oberyn said, giving her an encouraging nod.

She did so hesitantly, realizing that it was a blunted practice sword that her brothers had used before Ser Rodrik and her father allowed them live steel. It was heavier than she expected but not too heavy. She let the tip drop to the ground anyway, holding it tightly in her hand with confusion written across her face. Did he intend to fight her? She would surely lose even if he had no weapon of his own. Oberyn held out his hand and she hesitantly took it with her free one, allowing him to lead her towards a tree.

“My eldest daughter, Obara, was nearing her tenth nameday when I brought her into my household,” Oberyn said, planting her in front of the tree. “She had been raised from birth in a brothel and possessed quite a bit of anger for her mother and for me as well. She was rather difficult to deal with until I learned how best to let her release her anger. I gave her a blunted sword, led her to a dummy in the training yard, and told her to hit it over and over again. Pretend as though it was her mother or even pretend as though it was me. I did not care as long as she had an outlet because she’d been burying her anger inside for so long that she was only harming herself.”

Sansa watched him, feeling as though he was trying to tell her something.

“Did it work?” she asked.

“She hacked nearly a dozen dummies to pieces over the next few days. Then at the end of it all, she came to me and called me ‘Papa’ for the first time before asking if I would teach her how to properly fight with a spear.”

Sansa swallowed hard at the reminder that he was a man with grown children and a family with Ellaria. She felt like an interloper at best. The thoughts were chased from her head when he moved to stand behind her, leading both of her hands to grip the hilt of the sword properly. Then he helped her raise it into the air and pointed at the tree in front of her.

“It isn’t a training dummy but it will suffice.”

Her eyes widened and she glanced at him over her shoulder, dropping the tip of the sword back to the ground.

“You mean for me to hit it?”

“Aye, I do,” Oberyn nodded, turning her head back to face the tree with gentle hands before helping her lift the sword again.

Sansa wanted to tell him about Arya and how she was the one who always wanted to learn how to fight. She’d never so much as wanted to hold a sword, much less swing it.

“Do it,” he encouraged.

She managed a half-hearted, rather pathetic swing, wincing as it bounced off the tree. Bracing herself for his responding laughter, for surely she made a ridiculous picture, Sansa was surprised when he adjusted her stance and told her to grip the sword tighter before stepping away.

“Again,” Oberyn said, his voice patient but firm. “And harder.”

She attempted it once more and grimaced, only holding the sword up so that he would not lift it for her once more.

“Again,” was all that he said.

“I can’t,” Sansa told him, suddenly finding this outing much less pleasant than before.

“You can. Again.”

She gritted her teeth and swung at the tree, doing no better than the first two times.

“What happened to your father?”

Sansa froze, nearly dropping the sword in shock. For just a moment, she was standing on the steps of Baelor’s Sept again screaming at them to  _ please stop! Don’t kill him! Please! _

“They killed him,” she said quietly, her voice distant to her ears.

“Who?”

The sunlight glinted off of Ice and blood dripped from the end of it. A silent man with cold eyes held it in both hands.

“Ilyn Payne,” Sansa said.

Oberyn stepped up next to her, pointing at the tree before looking at her.

“That is Ilyn Payne. Hit it.”

She took a deep breath, seeing the Royal Execution take her father’s head from her body again and again as she swung the sword. It glanced off and she nearly dropped it before tightening her grip and hitting it again and once more after that.

“Better,” Oberyn said, stepping behind her again. “What did they do to your brother?”

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, willing her tears away as she imagined Robb as she last saw him with snowflakes melting in his hair and a smile upon his face.

“They betrayed him,” she said, gripping the sword even tighter. “They-they mutilated his body and sewed Grey Wind’s head on shoulders.”

“Who did that?”

“The Freys.”

Sansa did not need Oberyn to tell her to envision them even though she’d never seen Walder Frey or his sons, hitting at the tree harder. This time, she chipped bark from the tree and watched as it flew through the air after several unskillful swings.

“Your mother?”

Tears stung at her eyes and she was helpless to stop them.

“They slit her throat and threw her body into the river,” Sansa said, her voice breaking now. “Roose Bolton.”

Several more hits.

“Theon murdered Bran and Rickon. They were just  _ boys. _ ”

More less than graceful hits that would make any master-at-arms wince.

“Joffrey gave the command to kill my father.”

More.

“Cersei did nothing to stop it.”

Four swings as chips of bark rained down upon the ground.

“Tywin ordered the murder of my mother and brother.”

Another hit.

“Septa Mordane.”

Hit.

“Jory Cassel.”

Hit.

“Jeyne Poole.”

Hit.

“Sansa Stark,” Oberyn said.

She stilled, her chest heaving and her arms burning from the effort of swinging the sword as much as she had. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her words came out between heaving sobs.

“What did they do to Sansa Stark?” he asked.

She let the sword slip from her fingers, paying it no mind when it dropped to the ground. Oberyn made no move to pick it up nor did he tell her to do it. He just waited.

“They killed my family,” she said, her entire body trembling. “They beheaded my father and degraded my mother and butchered Robb. They slaughtered my brothers. Arya is gone and likely dead as well.”

“What did they do  _ to _ Sansa Stark?” Oberyn repeated.

She let out a whimper, her legs failing her as she sunk to her knees in the grass.

“They tried to kill me too,” she cried, feeling him kneel next to her. “Slowly and torturously, taking my soul bit by bit.”

“Who?”

“Joffrey. Cersei. Tywin.” Sansa listed, closing her eyes. “Boros Blount. Meryn Trant. Preston Greenfield. Mandon Moore.”

The list could have gone on but her tears overwhelmed her. Burying her face in her hands, Sansa did not fight Oberyn when he pulled her into his arms and cradled her head against his chest. He held her as she cried, pressing kisses to her hair for several minutes before leaning away and lifting her face to look into her eyes.

“It does no good to push it away, my princess,” he said softly, brushing the tears from her eyes. “Never again will you have to swallow your anger and your pain, I promise you. If I must bring you here every day to hack at this tree, I will never allow you to suffer alone and in silence.”

Sansa shuddered out another sob as his hands cupped her face gently. She wished that she had the courage to speak of her scars. Of the beatings and the humiliation she suffered before the court. But she still feared what may result, either his rage or his disgust. She could not bring herself to speak the words. Not yet. Not here.

“They will pay in blood,” Oberyn whispered to her before pressing a firm kiss to her forehead.

As Sansa threw her arms around his shoulders and allowed him to hold her close on that forest floor, she knew that he meant what he said. Their game was no longer a game. The truth was their blood, bonding them together. Staring over his shoulder at Ānogār, who was grazing around the clearing peacefully, Sansa somehow knew that Oberyn was the answer to every prayer that she’d uttered over the last few long years. He was no shining knight or golden prince. But he may well be her deliverance and, if all went well, he would be enough vengeance for the both of them.

“Tell me truly, what do you think of Jayde and Perra?” Oberyn asked as he held her.

Sansa did not answer right away as she did not expect the question.

“I am grateful that you brought them to me,” she said carefully, pulling away from him.

“But?” he said, lifting her chin gently before she could drop her head too far.

She met his eyes and saw a plea for honesty in their dark depths.

“They are strangers,” Sansa admitted.

“Do you wish for this Shae to return to your service?” Oberyn asked.

She hesitated before nodding slowly.

“But I do not wish to put you or anyone else in danger,” Sansa said quickly.

“We will figure it out,” he said, stroking his thumb over her cheek. “You do not have to submit to me just because that is what you have been taught to do. I value your thoughts and I want you to speak your mind. If I am being a fool, tell me so and we may discuss the issue as I do with Ellaria. Never think that you must keep silent.”

She didn’t quite know what to say to that. As if he sensed it, Oberyn leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her lips that Sansa returned without hesitation, feeling even closer to him now.

*****

That night found her in Oberyn’s bed once more, despite her adamant reassurance that she would be fine if he preferred to spend it with Ellaria as he had the last several nights. Apparently his paramour had her eye on a Crownlands knight from the moment they arrived in King’s Landing and was happily occupied with him now. Sansa was not surprised to learn that Ellaria absented herself from their ride on purpose, giving Oberyn the chance to talk Sansa through the exercise. At the moment, her prince was laid out on his stomach much like he’d been when she awoke the morning after their wedding, his tunic lying somewhere next to the bed as she traced his scars far more boldly than she had before.

“And this one?” Sansa asked, brushing her thumb over one that cut straight across his shoulder blade.

“A duel to first blood when I was sixteen,” Oberyn said, playing with the hem of her shift. “With Lord Edgar Yronwood.”

She thought about it for a moment.

“Lord Edgar Yronwood died because of a duel, did he not?” Sansa remembered.

“And I have been known by another name ever since,” Oberyn said with the slightest of smirks upon his lips.

Her eyes widened as she realized that Oberyn was likely the cause of the man’s death.

“Your blade was poisoned?” she asked.

“I’ve never responded to such rumors,” he said.

Sansa traced the thick scar again.

“Why did you challenge him?”

“He challenged me,” Oberyn corrected her, looking quite relaxed beneath her touch. “He found me abed with his paramour.”

She should have guessed that part of the story.

“Was she beautiful?” Sansa asked, though she already suspected the answers.

“She was a bastard of a Fowler lord with yellow hair and blue eyes that looked nothing like yours.”

“How are they different?”

Her mother would have likely set herself aflame before asking her father anything of Jon Snow’s mother but here Sansa was, asking Oberyn about a former lover of his. As strange as it felt, it didn’t bother her near as much as she expected.

“Yours remind me Sea of Dorne, bright and striking even from a distance. Hers were like the dark blue of the sky at dusk.”

Sansa leaned forward, finding another scar near his hip, long and thin this time.

“This one?” she asked.

“My own daughter Nymeria,” Oberyn said, rolling onto his side. “We were sparring and she caught me with a dagger.”

“Did she feel terrible?” Sansa asked, feeling rather alarmed at the idea of it.

“She laughed and told me that I was getting slow,” he said, a proud lilt to his voice.

She shook her head, leaning back against the headboard once more. It sounded like Nymeria was much like him. Sansa wondered if it was a trait that all of his daughters shared. She felt anxious at the thought of meeting each of them one day and hoped that they would not hate her too much. She would not try to be anything but a friend to them, if they allowed it. Sansa so missed having friends.

“A few moons before King Robert came to Winterfell to name my father as his Hand, six direwolves were found near Winterfell, one for each of the Stark children,,” she said, remembering her delight at being presented with her own direwolf that day. “My sister, Arya, named her direwolf Nymeria. She always loved the story of the Rhoynish princess and her ten thousand ships. She would love meeting you and Ellaria and your daughters. She always wanted to learn how to fight.”

“She may still be alive,” Oberyn said.

“I hope so,” Sansa said, wrapping her arms loosely around her knees. “I hope she is far away from all of this.”

The pain in her still sore arms reminded her of their venture into the forest and Sansa met his eyes.

“Did you ever do it? Swing at a tree or a dozen dummies in anger?” she asked.

“Once,” Oberyn said, turning over on his side with his head propped on his hand. “When I learned of Elia’s death. I felt as though the grief was a living darkness swallowing me whole. I didn’t even realize the damage I’d done until I sat in the midst of the destruction with a ruined sword and tears finally drying on my cheeks.”

Sansa stared at him for a long moment before shifting down to lie beside him, mimicking his position.

“They will know justice,” she said, speaking the words slowly and carefully.

Oberyn nodded slowly.

“Dorne has not forgotten,” he said, reaching out to stroke her hair.

_ The North remembers. _

“Nor have I,” Sansa said.

Dropping her eyes to his chest, she followed the scars there before reaching down to trace one that slashed across his ribs.

“How did you get this one?”

“I rode with a sellsword company in the Free Cities for a time,” he said, humoring her. “An Unsullied warrior struck at me with the tip of his spear."

“Unsullied?” Sansa asked, tilting her head to the side.

Oberyn looked somewhat amused.

“Eunuch slave soldiers,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening.

He smiled, shifting closer to her to kiss her deeply and endlessly, filling her body with warmth and chasing away her thoughts. It wasn’t until several minutes later as she laid with her head upon his chest, her lips swollen and exhaustion seeping into her bones, that she remembered what he told her in the Kingswood.

_ “They will pay in blood.” _

For the first time since Robb and her mother died, Sansa believed that they would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please let me know what you think!
> 
> There hasn't been any big ~conflict~ in a few chapters but I thought I'd take it easy on all of you before the shit metaphorically hits the fan. That begins in the next chapter because we have a certain 77 course wedding feast taking place. I hope you enjoyed the Sansa/Ellaria and Sansa/Oberyn of it all!


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